Third Wheel: an alternate ending to season 5
by Etrixan
Summary: Castiel followed Sam and Dean into the hotel in Detroit—after everything they've survived together, there's no way he's leaving them alone now. This small act of loyalty has consequences, of course. Now he has to learn how to live as a grounded angel, Dean has to learn how not to fight for his brother, and Lisa has to learn how to balance family and desire. WARNINGS in chapter 1.
1. Point of No Return

**Characters**: Dean, Castiel, Lisa and Ben Braeden; with cameos by Bobby, Michael (Adam), Rachel, Balthazar, Amelia and Claire Novak, and a few OCs.  
**Disclaimer**: The characters aren't mine. I just shake them out and play with them.  
**Word Count**: around 120k (I think)  
**Pairings**: Dean/Lisa/Castiel  
**Rating**: R

**Content**: AU/AR (alternate ending to Season 5), death, h/c, language, polyamory, violence (including attempted rape, attempted kidnapping, and non-consensual drug use); spoilers for up to 6.01

**AN**: Written for mortar on livejournal who promised to read something longer than 3,000 words if her conditions were met. She wanted a different take on Season 6 with no soulless!Sam, no Campbells, and no Godstiel. Well, this isn't quite that, but it's certainly longer than 3,000 words!

This one isn't beta'ed, so if you spot any errors, let me know.

Posting schedule is once a week, probably on Sundays. I'm anticipating 17 chapters but I'm still working on the ending so it might go up (or down).

* * *

The hotel was old and weary, dripping stained wallpaper and mildew. The floorboards, occasionally covered in chipped linoleum tile, creaked and bent under their weight. Dean was tempted to make a joke about how it would be just their luck to fall through the rotten floor and die when they'd finally decided to do this thing.

This 'Thing'.

He'd laugh except it would probably sound too much like crying.

He and Sam were on their way to meet the Devil. The living, breathing embodiment of Evil that was determined to destroy everyone. Starting with his brother.

Jesus fuck, he didn't want to do this. He didn't want _Sam_ to do this, but it was too late to back out now. A demon, size XL, walked in front of them, and two more, size XXL, were behind, herding them up, up, up into the dark decay.

The huge-ass _demons_ didn't make the stairs groan when they walked on them.

'To whatever's out there, if anything is,' Dean found himself praying, 'please let this work. Preferably without Sam having to… to jump into the Pit. I won't make a deal, I promised him that, but just about anything else you ask of me, I'll do it. I'll shave my head, go celibate, join the Hare Krishnas, if that's what it takes."

It was a litany of outrageous promises that he knew he was making because there was no one listening. Nothing was going to jump out of the ether and save them when the timer clicked to 0:00:01. There was only him and Sam.

Soon there would only be him.

He nearly opened his mouth to plead with Sam to turn back, escape with him, to stop, but they'd finally reached the Devil's floor. He was visible at the far end of the hall, leaning near a window and making pictures in its frost-covered surface. Considering it was May, the frost was an ominous touch.

"Hello, boys," the Devil purred, using Nick's voice, Nick's body... Poor Nick.

"I told you this would always happen in Detroit." He barely looked at Dean, all his attention focused on Sam, his perfect vessel, Dean's baby brother.

"Sam?" Shit, he hadn't meant to say anything out loud, especially not in that wimpy-worried tone of voice.

Sam raised a hand without looking at him. The hunter was focused on his target, vibrating with readiness and demon blood. "We're here and I'm ready, but I have a couple conditions first."

Lucifer laughed. "Conditions? Really."

"Yeah," Sam stuck his jaw out obstinately. "Dean, my friend Bobby, and a couple other people that are family. I want them safe."

The Devil pursed his lips and tilted his head in the classic pose that meant 'pretending to think about it'. "Would you believe me if I agreed?"

"You said you'd never lie to me."

Actually, neither one of them thought Lucifer would stick to it even if he did agree, and they were pretty sure he wouldn't. But Lucifer's agreement wasn't important. What was important was Sam throwing out his arms dramatically and pulling all the attention to him.

"That's what you said, right? You'd never lie?"

Dean moved away from his brother's long, flailing arms, just like any sane guy would. He peeked sideways at their demon escorts and they were watching the show. Dean swallowed down the bile that threatened to come up despite him. They were actually doing this. It wasn't just a theoretical discussion anymore. It was real. God…

"Maybe I should be asking if _you_ would lie to _me_," Lucifer asked.

Sam huffed and dropped his arms dramatically. "Look, Judgment Day's a runaway train," he bit out angrily. "We get it now. We just want off."

"Meaning?" the Devil asked, voice and manner mild and reasonable. Too fucking reasonable.

"Deal of the century," Sam answered, stepping forward. "I give you a free ride, but when it's all over? I live; he lives. The people I care about are unharmed."

Lucifer nodded slowly, considering. Then he shifted, taking his own step forward. "It's a good story, Sam; delivered well—earnest, believable—but unfortunately for you, I know you have the rings."

Dean tried not to freeze like a guilty deer.

Sam didn't back down. "Does it change anything? Maybe I can beat you, maybe I can't. In the end _I'm_ your vessel. And I'm here, willing to say 'yes'."

Lucifer chuckled. "You're right. It changes nothing. And I kind of like the idea of a wrestling match inside your noggin. Just you and me, one round, no tricks. You win—you jump in the hole. I win... Well, then I win."

Dean's heart-rate ratcheted up another, equally impossible, level. "Sam," he pleaded, warned, whatever.

"We don't have any other choice," Sam responded not even turning to look at him.

Lucifer didn't look at him either. He kept his eyes on his vessel. "What do you say, Sam? 'A fiddle of gold against your soul says I'm better than you'."

'Say no. Say no. Say no,' the voice in Dean's head begged his brother. He kept his mouth shut tight on the actual words.

Sam took a deep breath to brace himself. "Yes," he said and the moment expanded like a bad special effect.

Light, the kind Dean had learned to associate with an unvesseled angel, filled the dingy room, illuminating the rotten furniture and the broken walls. The force of it blew the demons out of their host bodies. Bright as the sun but cold, cold, cold.

Dean didn't look at it, didn't look at anything. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the rings. He threw them down on the floor near his brother—his brother, whose hair was lifting and whose skin was almost glowing from within.

He still had time.

A deep breath of his own. "_Bvtmon…tabges." _He said the words carefully because Enochian was a damned hard language to pronounce. And because he was doing this: he was opening the door into the deepest, darkest pit Hell had to offer so that his baby brother could jump into it… and never come out.

He couldn't look. He couldn't.

But he could keep on going. Do what Sam had asked him. Make the sacrifice worth it.

"_Babalon_."

He felt the change in air pressure and finally had to open his eyes. Was it the door? Or was it Lucifer?

It was both.

The glow _was_ inside Sam now, and his face was contorted as the hunter tried to grab hold of the entity in his head. Small sounds escaped, grunts and gasps and cut-off moans filled with Sam's struggle.

Dean couldn't do anything to help, could only stand here and make sure Sam wasn't alone. "I'm here, Sam," he said. "I won't leave you." Then he said it again.

And again… again.

"I won't leave you."

The hole was a void in the middle of the hotel. Dean could see the floorboards stretching down into infinity. He pulled his gaze away because looking down into that wasn't making him happier about this whole thing.

"Dean!"

Sam's voice was nearly unrecognizable, like he had to pull the sound out of the Grand Canyon and across a desert to speak with it. It meant he was fighting Lucifer, fighting hard and Dean couldn't help but take a step forward. "Sammy?"

There's no wind, no lightning or rain inside the building, but Sam's hair was still flying around him and his clothes were rippling as if there was a tornado just around the corner.

"I can feel him."

Oh god. _Sam!_

"You've got to go, man! I mean, right now." It killed him to say it, to urge his brother to do this, but it would hurt worse for Sam to sacrifice himself and still lose.

"Dean!" Sam repeated, big body lifting as if on strings.

Dean pulled in a breath, felt tears clogging up his lungs and throat. He forced out the words. "Come on! Go now, Sammy. Now!"

Then it changed. Sam's body dropped to the ground, his hair and jacket fell still, and his face smoothed out into cool amusement.

"Sorry, Dean," Lucifer said. "I was just messing with you." He smirked. "Sammy's long gone."

.o0o.

Castiel knew he wasn't much of an angel anymore. He'd been cut off from Heaven for too long to be able to rejuvenate himself and his… 'mojo' to anything close to what he'd known as a member of the Garrison. But he had enough power for this.

He followed the Winchesters and their demon escort up the stairs of the old hotel, unseen, unheard. Not even a whisper of displaced air marked his passage.

He stood silent in the shadows as his dis-Graced brother taunted his friends. He watched the realization sink in that Lucifer knew they had the rings. He witnessed the stoic firming of Sam's features when he decided to go through with it and the bleak emptiness in Dean's when he didn't stop him.

He knew, even before Lucifer stopped the show, that the Winchesters had failed.

"Sorry, Dean," Lucifer said. "I was just messing with you. Sammy's long gone."

Then the Devil's smirk turned into a triumphant smile as he focused on Dean and enjoyed his triumph. Castiel knew this was it. This was his moment.

In a blink he left the shadows, gathered all that was left of his true Self, and flung it at Lucifer, pushing the Devil with his Being and, yes, with his hands. Pushing him with everything he could, into the opening the Winchesters' sacrifice had made. There was a flash of blue-white light so bright it nearly obscured Lucifer's look of angry shock.

Then the Devil was flailing, struggling, tipping, and finally falling, falling, falling into the infinite hole.

Castiel fell with him.

Not into the Pit, although he would hardly have cared at the moment. No, he fell to his knees, breathless, boneless, and blind. He gasped for air that he'd never before needed for more than talking. He felt as heavy as the world and yet as if he was floating in the Heavenly abyss.

"_Chdr bvtmon_."

The Enochian words, even mispronounced the way Dean did, made his body thrum. An odd, painful sensation that Castiel decided he didn't like. It did manage to bring him back to his vessel, however, to find that Dean was now kneeling beside him, holding him up, and whispering-shouting-praying desperately at him. "Cas! Cas! C'mon, man. Don't check out on me now."

Castiel knew they were in a hotel, but they hadn't actually checked in, so how could he check out? He tried to ask but maybe he had hallucinated Dean's presence because he could not see him.

There was a sharp pressure on his cheek, quickly removed. "Open your eyes, Cas," he heard. "Let me see those baby blues."

It was Dean.

He had not imagined him after all.

He used the last of his energy to lift his eyelids. He tried to speak and was sure his lips parted, but nothing emerged.

"You've got a pulse now, dude," the hunter said. "And it's chugging like a bullet train."

That was probably not a good sign.

"Take a couple breaths, nice and even. C'mon, Cas. With me," and Dean breathed in and out in a steady rhythm that Castiel didn't realize he was following until his vessel calmed.

"That's the way, dude. Think you can walk?"

He stared at the freckles on Dean's face. Humans called them angel kisses, but as far as he knew, no angel had ever kissed Dean except, perhaps, Anna. But that would have been before she recaptured her Grace so it would hardly count.

"Okay, I'm thinking that's a no on the whole walking thing."

Dean lifted his arm and placed it around his own shoulders. Castiel continued to look at Dean's face and discovered liquid tracks from his friend's eyes to his chin. They were tears, Castiel recalled, a physical manifestation of extreme emotion.

He would like to cry, he thought. He would like to shout and stamp his feet in anger. He would like to collapse into nothingness and know certainty once again.

He would like to fly.

"There's no way we're getting on an airplane, Cas," Dean said and all Castiel could do was blink at the oddness of the remark. "At least you're easier to manhandle than S– Than my dad ever was."

S… S equals Sam. Sam. Sam is gone.

"Yeah," Dean's voice cracked. "Yeah, He's gone. We did it. We saved the whole crappy world from the Apocalypse. Hoo-fucking-rah." The words were filled with bitterness and a cold, aching grief, and Castiel understood exactly what Dean was feeling.

Later on, Castiel could never remember exactly what happened. His perfect memory, his preternatural senses, failed him utterly in the aftermath of Lucifer's recapture. There were blurs of sights (waves of lights flowing over them in a soothing flow), sounds (a mechanical purr occasionally interrupted by soft thump-thumps), and smells (leather and living, coffee and gasoline). At one point, he realized that he was in the back seat of the Impala and he was uncomfortable, but that knowledge drifted away with as little effort as it had arrived.

His body felt heavy and uncoordinated; his mind sluggish and his senses dull.

It was similar to what he'd felt after banishing the angels from the warehouse in Van Neys during their attempt to rescue Adam Milligan. Yet, after that battle, and even through the pain and the weakness of his near-human healing, Castiel had felt the connection to something larger than himself—the Host, through what remained of his Grace. Now he tried to find the spark that he'd taken for granted for so long, but there was nothing. The spot was empty so he couldn't heal himself. He couldn't do anything except lie where he'd been left and breathe. He was alive.

And human.

Hoo-fucking-rah indeed.

When oblivion attacked him, he surrendered willingly.

Eventually, Dean made him drink water. Later he made him stand at the side of the road and get rid of the by-product that resulted from drinking water. He'd never had to do that before and he didn't think—couldn't believe_—_that it was an indicator that he would ever get better.

The brightness he saw beyond his eyelids dimmed. A sunset, he was missing, perhaps. He'd enjoyed sunsets, once. Especially sunsets over the ocean, watching his Father's creations crawl out of the tide.

He didn't want to be here. Not like this.

"Jesus, Cas. You're a freaking ice cube," a familiar voice said.

Don't blaspheme, he wanted to say, but it was too much effort.

Another voice joined the first; this one was older, gruffer, but equally familiar. They were both distant though, muffled. Castiel decided that he didn't care what they were saying. He didn't want to know. The future looked better from a distance.

They moved his body, wrapping him in something warm. He didn't care. It helped him drift off and away.

Then he got the shakes.

Full body convulsions that made him curl up then kick out. Even dazed as he was, Castiel knew that he was hurting himself along with the car. Dean's precious Impala. He would have worried about the damage but all he could think was that it hurt. _He_ hurt.

"Shh, man. It's okay. We'll get through this."

He tried to respond but all that came out was an unrecognizable groan like an animal in pain, which was, unfortunately, an apt description.

"Here." It was the other voice. Bobby, he suddenly realized. Bobby was with them. Of course he would be. The older hunter had been in Detroit with them, after all.

There were mutters; about shock and trauma that Castiel knew were about him, but he didn't care, couldn't care.

He was alone.

He couldn't hear the Garrison; couldn't feel his brothers and sisters through his Grace because, he no longer had his Grace—any of it. He had well and truly Fallen.

And unlike Aniel—Anna—his Grace wasn't safely ensconced in a tree in a remote location.

It hadn't been his physical body that had pushed his twisted brother into the hole Dean had opened. It had been the force of his Grace, ripped from his body and used as a battering ram. Now his Grace was in the Pit with Sam and Lucifer.

Beyond his reach.

Perhaps it would give Sam some comfort.

"You're sure?" Bobby asked from somewhere above him.

"Yeah. Blue-white, just like that time in the barn with Anna."

Ah good, Castiel thought dimly. He wouldn't have to explain it to them. Maybe they would let him fade…

"Right then. You'll need to get him someplace safe so he can recover. I'd offer you my place but it's been angel-proofed. "

"I know a place. She might… They might take us both in." His weight shifted on the surface he was lying on and Dean's voice drew closer.

"Do they know?" Bobby's voice faded.

"Yeah," Dean answered. Castiel's upper body was lifted and a warm liquid was tilted into his mouth. Strong fingers massaged his throat and he swallowed without conscious effort. It was still as disturbing as the first time Dean had done this.

"Then they won't have any problem with you putting up some protections."

Beneath him, Dean shifted in discomfort. "Bobby," he protested then stopped.

"Save it. You two managed to make some powerful enemies by doing what you did, and I can't think of a monster-of-the-week who wouldn't want to get their claws on an honest-to-God fallen angel. So, if you're going to start to live that apple-pie life you promised your brother, you're gonna have to set up some decent protections."

Dean's supporting arm went from soft to rigid in a beat of a hummingbird's wing. "Bobby," his voice cracked.

"It'll be alright, son. You may have promised him not to try anything, but I didn't. So you call me and I'll let you know."

Castiel tried to point out what a colossally bad idea that was but Dean was pouring more warm liquid down his throat, and by the time he had swallowed it the world was drifting away again.

It was almost like flying…

Then it was like death.

.o0o.

Lisa didn't live in Cicero anymore. Dean wasn't sure if she'd moved out right after the changelings, or if she'd been hit hard when the banking crisis thing happened. Didn't matter. He'd found her just down the highway in Noblesville.

He'd first found her to say good-bye, and now he was heading to Indianapolis to move in. He didn't know if that was irony, or just pathetic.

He was still debating when he pulled up in front of her tidy bungalow.

He got out of the car, but that was it.

He didn't know what he should do next. Not really. Drive away and never come back was at the top of the list but he already knew that wasn't going to happen. He'd promised Sam and he couldn't… He couldn't help Cas if he was on the road. Cas had ripped his Grace out to make Sam's sacrifice work and that meant Dean owed both of them so, so much—the whole frigging world.

So here he was: in the driveway of a woman he barely knew (who maybe had given birth to his son) about to barge into their lives with a half-dead former angel and a fucked-in-the-head former hunter.

What the hell was he thinking?

The door opened while he stood there frozen in doubt. "Dean?" The voice was feminine and familiar, filled with concern and, oddly enough, hope.

Too late to go back to the car and drive away. "Hey, Lisa."

She hadn't waited for his response, already half way up the walk before he'd finished speaking. She put out a hand and let it hover close to his chest. "Oh, thank god," she breathed. "Are you all right?"

No. _Fuck_ no. But he was alive. And he was here.

"Yeah," he said in an obvious lie. "Uh, if it's not too late, I... Think I'd like to take you up on that beer." His voice wouldn't straighten out, and his eyes hurt and his chest was a massive fireball of pain, and he just wanted to collapse and let it all go away.

When Lisa gathered him in, he let himself lean on her. This strong woman with the bright smile and the warm heart that he hardly knew. It was to her that he poured out his grief in great, heaving sobs. He told her, without words, that he wasn't all right. He wasn't even close, but she didn't seem to care. She just rubbed big circles on his back. She stroked through his hair and told him he was doing good.

He tried to tell her that he was toxic. Just about everyone he'd ever cared about or let into his life had died or been swallowed up in the evil cloud that the angels called destiny and he called his life.

She just hugged him closer and whispered "I know," but she couldn't know. She couldn't. Because Sam was gone (_trappedtorturedforeverandeveramen_) and Cas was human and the _world_ wouldn't end, but they had.

"Shh," she murmured. "We'll get through this." And then she hummed something soft and soothing.

It took time, but it worked. His breathing eased into a more normal rhythm and he could almost pretend he hadn't just had a complete meltdown on Lisa's shoulder while a sick angel waited in the car–

"Holy shit. _Cas!_" Dean exclaimed in a rough whisper, pulling away from the comfort Lisa offered.

"What?" she asked, bewildered.

"My… my friend Cas—Castiel. He's in the car. He helped and-and now he's grounded. For good, we think. He's not doing so good."

"Are you asking if he can come in too?" She stood straighter, more resistant. Dean got it, he did. It was one thing to take in one messed up guy that you kinda-sorta knew, but something else to take on his equally messed up friend.

"He's okay, like, not a pervert or a hunter. I swear. He's a– He was…" Well, Hell... How to explain Cas?

"He was an angel, but he lost his Grace when he helped us to-to defeat…" He couldn't say it because they hadn't defeated Lucifer. They'd tricked him and trapped him and he shouldn't bother the world for another few millennia, but he wasn't defeated. And his brother was down there trapped with him.

He blinked hard and rapid, forcing the tears back because he'd already cried fucking _enough_.

"He's the most polite guy you're ever going to meet," was all he said.

Lisa snorted in surprise. "Really? Polite?"

"And clueless. And loyal." And kind of awesome but he couldn't say that out loud. "I can't leave him."

Jesus, his face was wet. He wished he could lie to himself and say it was because it was raining, but the air was bone dry. He ran a hand over his cheeks, squeezing the moisture off. He wanted to be here, he did, but not if Cas couldn't come too. They'd find someplace else if Lisa couldn't take on both of them. He knew that she'd been staring at him, assessing him with her sharp, seeing eyes.

Finally, she sighed, a quick huff of breath. "Bring him in too. I'll set up the couch.

He didn't wait for her to change her mind, but stumbled back to the Impala where his friend was curled in a painful ball in the back seat.

Bobby had put him under an electric blanket plugged into an adapter in the cigarette lighter. It took a lot of juice to run the thing even at low temp and he knew that leaving it on might have run the battery down, but if it kept Cas alive… Well, then. It was worth it. He was all Dean had left.

He was also heavy.

Or maybe Dean was just exhausted. Not that he didn't have an excuse to be tired beyond all reason. After all, every time he closed his eyes he saw Sam strapped to Alistair's rack, tied down, cut up, bleeding out, and screaming for him. Screaming for his big brother to come save him like Dean had screamed for Sam.

And that was the nicest dream he'd had.

Dean slammed his hand against the roof of his baby and let the sharp pain pull him out of his maudlin funk. He didn't need to cry anymore tonight. He crouched down and pulled the angel and his electric blanket out in one bundled heap. He folded Cas over his shoulder, and stood, one hand hovering near the Impala in case his legs didn't hold. A breath, and then he staggered up the path, up the shallow stairs (a bit of a wobble but no one saw) and into Lisa's house.

This was a much smaller house than her last one, but it smelled the same. It smelled of her and Ben, and the ordinary life most people knew.

If Sam had his way, soon it would smell like Dean's new home.

"Here. I've opened up the futon in the living room," Lisa said and rescued Dean from another humiliating break-down. "It's a double, so it should be big enough for you both. Is that okay? I figured you wouldn't want to leave him alone. You said he was in rough shape."

Dean pulled his attention off his comatose friend and nodded once. "Yeah, no. You're right. This'll be good." He threw his thumb over his shoulder. "I just have to grab a couple things out of the trunk. Will you… Will you stay with him?"

She smiled softly at the hunter. "Of course."

Dean nodded, but didn't move. "He's been really cold," he said, keeping his gaze on Cas. "We picked up an electric blanket. Is there any place to plug it in?"

"I'll do that," she responded. "You go get your things. I have an extra toothbrush if you need one, but no PJs that'll fit. Except for some granny-style nighties that are big enough for a cow. My mother gave them to me," she explained.

He finally looked up at her. He managed a smile. "That's okay. I got what I need in my duffel bag." And he did, so he went and got it, because standing there looking down at Castiel was stupid.

There was a familiar dark head sitting on the stairs. "Ben." He stopped.

"Dean." The boy rubbed his hands on his pajamas. "You moving in?"

"Yeah. For a while." Dean frowned as something occurred to him. "Is that okay with you?"

Ben shrugged, pulling his shoulders nearly up to his ears. He didn't look at Dean. "I guess. Mom says it's okay."

"Your mom's a good person. A good friend." Better than he probably deserved considering what happened to all his friends.

"Do you need a hand with anything?" Ben asked, still not looking at Dean.

"Nah. I got it," Dean answered. "Thanks for asking."

A smaller shrug this time. "No problem." Then nothing but glances sneaked from under dark eyelashes.

Okay. Awkward.

Again Dean tossed his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm just gonna get–"

"Okay."

Dean could feel the dark eyes follow him out the door. He didn't hesitate though, just walked out to the Impala, grabbed his bag, locked her up, pocketed the keys and walked back in.

Ben wasn't on the stairs. He wasn't in the living room with Castiel or Lisa. Light footsteps above gave away the boy's location and Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. At least the kid wasn't dead and he hadn't been grabbed by anything.

"I got some of his clothes off but he's really heavy."

"He was an angel," Dean said without thinking. Fuck, he was tired.

"Yeah, you told me." Lisa said. She frowned first at Castiel then at him. "Why do you have an angel–" She stopped herself, hand lifted. "No, don't explain. Not tonight. Tonight you need to sleep. You _are_ going to sleep, aren't you?" She was still frowning at him, dark eyes searching his, looking for the truth in that way she had.

"I'm gonna try."

She looked away, nodding lightly. "Good. Good. I have some herbal tea that'll help. I might even have a Valium stashed away if you need it."

How about whiskey? Dean was tempted to ask but alcohol lowered too many barriers and he didn't want to dream tonight. Wasn't it Shakespeare who said that sleeping was fine; it was dreaming that sucked?

"I think I'll try it solo first," he said mildly. "See how it goes."

Lisa's head bobbed in acceptance and Dean's followed suit.

"Bathroom is there–" she pointed to a hallway tucked on the back side of the stairwell "–across from the office. Towels are in the cupboard. Help yourself to whatever." She twisted her hands together before rubbing them on her sleep-pants. "If you need anything…"

"I'll call," Dean promised but what he really needed Lisa couldn't provide. He'd have to make do with what she had: a bed, a welcome, a friendship…

He waited until she was in her own bedroom before stripping off the rest of Cas' clothes. Lisa'd been right: he _was_ heavy. Maybe it was a result of having an angel occupying his body for so long; maybe all that Heaven juice had soaked into Jimmy's muscles and bones and made them extra dense. Dean didn't know, couldn't really care at the moment. For now it was just a pain in the ass, because his own muscles weren't feeling up to manhandling a ton of limp flesh.

Eventually, he got Cas stripped down to his boxers and undershirt. He set the electric, and rolled Cas into it. Then he sat on the bed and waited to have the energy to do the same thing for himself.

He waited a long time.


	2. Phantom Traveler

The next day the sun shone.

The sun shone, the birds sang, and the world went about its business with no awareness of what had nearly happened. No understanding of what had been sacrificed so that they could have their mochaccinos and SUVs, and their vague guilt that they had so much more than most people.

Dean was awake to hear Ben ease down the stairs and around to the kitchen where Lisa was making breakfast as quietly as possible. Eggs, he thought, and nearly-burnt toast.

Burnt.

Kinda like Sam in Hell.

He rolled on his side to let the tears slide off. He no longer denied that they were tears or got upset that he had a never-ending supply of them. They welled up, they fell down, and he went on breathing in and out, in a world that no longer contained Sam—his pain-in-the-ass little brother.

Bobby had said that he'd do some research, see if there was any indication anywhere that they could dig Sam out of the Pit without letting Lucifer out at the same time. He didn't think the chances were good but they both knew they had to _try_.

"Is he going to be here after school?" Ben asked from the other room.

"I think so," Lisa answered, "but I can't guarantee it."

Of course they were going to be here, Dean thought. Where else did they have to go? And Sam had made him promise. Promise to live a life that included making a kid breakfast before sending him off to school, but Sam must have forgotten that Dean had done all that. He'd done that with _Sam_. And okay, it hadn't exactly been apple pie, (more like lemon meringue) but it had been normal for _them_.

Somewhere in the distance a door opened and closed. Ben, on his way to… What? He'd be in middle school, wouldn't he? Dean didn't know, couldn't think, hardly cared. Soft footsteps. Lisa going back to her bedroom, maybe to get dressed. There were birds outside and a dog, cars and people, all of them making noises. Life continuing. It was bizarre.

Beside him Castiel groaned, a pain-filled 'I don't want to wake up' sound that Dean had heard from many people over his life but only recently from an angel.

He rolled over to put a hand on Cas' shoulder. "Cas?" He shifted his touch to the forehead. He seemed to be at human-normal temperature, which was several degrees lower than Cas had been before.

"Cas," he repeated, giving him a little shake this time. "You okay, buddy?"

A little frown appeared between Cas' brows but his eyes didn't open.

"You hungry? Thirsty?" Dean asked. "Do you need to go to the bathroom?"

The frown deepened. Full lips, pursed and rolled. "This body does seem to need… something."

Dean's lips quirked because it was almost amusing how clueless Cas was, but then he remembered how Cas was a year ago, how indestructible. He'd been a bad-ass, mother-fucking warrior of God, and one of the best friend's Dean had ever had.

He'd liked watching Cas discover his humanity, and if he was honest, he'd enjoyed sullying his halo a little bit as well, but he'd never wanted Cas to be full-on _human_. Especially not after seeing him in Zachariah's version of 2014.

Maybe it was just a temporary thing.

It was probably just a temporary thing.

Castiel's stomach rumbled and groaned and Dean's stomach burbled in reply. "Okay then. Let's get started. First off: bathroom."

"Surely, consumption of food would be the first priority," Cas asked in a voice of mild interest. "It provides the body with the much-needed energy."

"Doesn't work that way," Dean answered, slowly rolling out of bed and stretching. He grabbed his jeans. "We empty ourselves out before we fill ourselves back up."

"Does that make room for more food than you would otherwise have?"

"Man, I don't know. I _do_ know that being hungry for an extra thirty minutes is a lot easier than having a full bladder for ten."

As he spoke, Dean felt like a documentary, or maybe a biology textbook. It threw him back to when Sam had learned how to ask 'why'. Finding the weirdest, twistiest, truthful answer had become their most favorite game for a couple months, until their dad had had enough. By that time Sam had learned other questions, like 'how'.

"How are pies made, Dean?" "How do you know what's the best fruit?" "How come you never make pie?" "How come we can't stay here?" "How long will Dad be gone this time?"

_How are you going to rescue your brother, Dean?_

Funny, that question sounded like it was Dad's voice.

It was surprisingly easy to answer back. 'Fuck off. Absentee fathers don't get a say anymore.'

He pushed all the memories, all his worries, to the bottom of his mind and packed it down tight. Right now he had a different job.

He helped unwind Cas from the blankets. On the way to the bathroom, the former angel wobbled on his feet a little, but not as bad as during the drive here. Then, every time he'd dragged Cas out, Cas' legs had folded like an origami crane made from tissue paper.

Once at the toilet, however, Cas couldn't coordinate standing with any sort of hand movement, so Dean had to unwrap and aim for the guy. Cas didn't know enough to be embarrassed by it, and Dean had plenty of practice bulldozing through the awkward, but he'd never held another man's junk before. It was hard not to compare.

Finally, it was done.

Dean shook and tucked, and dutifully washed his hands.

"We need to brush our teeth." Dean asked, only then remembering that he'd left the bathroom stuff in the bag in the living room.

Cas dragged dull blue eyes up to meet his gaze. "We do?"

"Yeah, course—morning breath smells like ass." He forced a light tone into his voice. It became easier as he watched Cas try to smell his own breath. "People usually brush at least twice a day: once in the morning and then before bed. Some people brush after lunch, too, but that's kind of hard on the road, y'know?"

Cas stared at him as if he'd spoken in code. "Being human is time-consuming," the angel said without inflection or apparent interest. "Eating, drinking, cleaning yourselves inside and out. Sleeping. It explains why human lives seem so short to you."

Dean stared at Cas.

"Yeah," he finally agreed. "We spend a lot of time preparing for when we'll be doing something else. I'll just go get the toothbrushes."

One last check to make sure Cas was going to remain standing—leaning on the counter counted—and Dean took the few steps required to take him back to the living room.

It occurred to him that this place was _a lot_ smaller than what Lisa had had before.

Not that it was surprising that she didn't want to stay in the house where her son had been replaced by an evil changeling, and okay, that place had been frigging _huge_ for just two people, but this place was the complete and utter opposite. Essentially one floor, the living room, connected to the kitchen-dining room, and they took up the right side. The bathroom, Lisa's bedroom and her office were on the left, and the stairs up to Ben's bedroom split the house down the middle.

For the first time, Dean wondered what Lisa did for a living. She'd taught yoga and shit when they'd hooked up ten years ago, but that was _ten years ago_!

Holy fucking shit!

Ten years.

Ten_. Years._

Sam had been fifteen and growing. Every time he'd looked around the kid had had an inch of sock showing below his newest pair of jeans. It was because of Sam's ridiculous growing spree that he'd met Lisa in the first place. Sam had needed more clothes so Dean had picked up a job driving a rusted out '72 Barracuda across six states to a restorer who needed the parts. Not having a cassette player had sucked, but it had been easy money.

Lisa had been his age, both of them sneaking into bars and other places they weren't supposed to be.

He'd told the new owner he'd blown the head gasket seal and had to wait for another one, and then he'd spent the weekend with Lisa-bright, breezy, bendy and adventurous. He'd known that it would be one of the best two days of his life.

And now it was ten years ago, and it was one of the few truly good weekends he'd had.

So much had happened in his life. He wondered what had happened in Lisa's, aside from having Ben.

And finding out that things _did_ go bump in the night.

She hadn't gotten out of Indiana like she'd planned, but had she gone back to school? Did she have a boyfriend, a permanent one who wouldn't appreciate her inviting two guys into her house? On a (possibly) semi-permanent basis, though Dean wasn't sure if that was true.

Did he care at this point?

Dean got Cas through brushing his teeth and washing his hands. He pulled Cas' arm over his shoulder and helped him stagger into the kitchen. Maybe some eggs and toast. Not burnt—he didn't want anything too cooked. Perhaps, some orange juice, because parents always have OJ for their kids. Or maybe coffee, because Dean could see the coffee maker from here. It was just a little one-cup maker but it was still a promise of Nirvana.

He put Cas in a seat at the kitchen table, assured him he'd be right back then he went into the bathroom to take his turn. Briefly, he wondered if he should take a shower then decided not to leave Cas alone for that long. He opened the door and nearly walked over Lisa.

"Dean." She sounded surprised. "Did you have a good sleep?"

"Not bad," he shrugged. He couldn't remember any nightmares at least.

"How about your friend? Castillo, was it?"

"Castiel. Cas. He's okay I think." His shoulder lifted into another shrug. "Kind of hard to know for sure."

She hesitated, smiling nervously. "I could… I could stay home today. Maybe help you two get settled. The department head is very understanding."

"You're a student?" Dean blurted out.

"A teacher, actually," she smiled fully this time. "At the community college."

"That's–" freaking bizarre "–cool, actually."

Another blinding smile. "I like it. Good benefits, you know."

Absolutely no fucking clue, Dean thought, but he agreed anyway.

"I also run yoga classes a couple days a week for a friend of mine, but that's not until tomorrow," she said with a small shrug. "But like I said, I could stay home today if you like. We're just wrapping up the spring term, a few exams to give out, and assignments to finish, so it doesn't matter if they get a substitute," she explained.

Dean shook his head. "Nah, it's okay. We'll be good. Rest up. Clean up. Eat up." He tried to smile but had the feeling he'd failed utterly. "Really, we wouldn't be good company."

She put a tentative hand on his arm. "I don't expect you to be good company, Dean," she reassured him. "I just want to be here if you need someone."

Need someone for what, Dean wanted to ask her. It's not like she could make this better. She couldn't turn back time and change their lives—any of them. She couldn't rebuild Cas' mojo, and she couldn't get Sam out of the Pit.

"Seriously, Lisa," he said instead. "I think we're just gonna, you know, rest. First time in a long time." He didn't even try to throw in a chuckle, knowing it would turn out bitter rather than rueful.

Her soft, dark eyes searched his for a moment before she nodded. "Okay, good. Resting and eating are good. Speaking of… we need to figure out better sleeping arrangements than the two of you on the couch."

She paused and he wondered what she was waiting for. His okay? He could do that. After all he'd promised Sam, hadn't he? He promised to try and build some kind of normal life with her. Normal didn't mean sleeping on the couch.

Normal also didn't mean hanging out with a de-powered angel, but whatever.

Lisa must have taken his silence for agreement because she gave him another small nod and a light peck on his cheek before heading out the door.

The skin where she kissed his cheek felt numb.

With a sigh, he joined Cas in the kitchen and tried to remember how to cook eggs.

.o0o.

Castiel watched Dean move around Lisa's food preparation area. The hunter was assembling a meal for them to eat—eggs, toast, and bacon, if Castiel remembered the English labels correctly.

Unfortunately, eating sounded about as appealing as eliminating waste products, which he would have to do if he ate. It had been one thing to watch humanity's endless body maintenance activities. It was something else to be forced to participate.

"C'mon Cas. You need to eat so you can get your mojo back."

Castiel's features shifted involuntarily. He was pretty sure he was 'frowning'. "I don't think that is possible."

"You don't think eating will help you rebuild your batteries?"

"I don't think I can… 'rebuild my battery'." The place inside him, the energy that used to fill his vessel and make him aware of being 'other' was empty and it did not have that sense of immanence that he'd known since he'd first occupied Jimmy.

"Of course you can. I mean, yeah, doing what you did… It took a lot out of you, I could tell, but–"

Castiel held up a hand—a shaky hand. "It took everything. And then it took more." He drew in a deep breath and the air was filled with things he couldn't fully sense anymore. "I can no longer hear the Garrison, can no longer feel their presence."

Dean stopped what he was doing to sit near him. His face was filled with worry. "Maybe they're blocking you," he suggested. "That's what they were doing before, right?"

"But I could always feel the barrier." Always, always aware of what his choice had cost him; always teased with the rewards that would be his if he would only return to the fold. "It is a void now."

"That's…" Dean's voice trailed off and Castiel knew he'd been planning on asking him to attempt to rescue his brothers, despite his promises to Sam and the Horseman. "I'm sorry, Cas. I know what it's like to be cut off from your family."

Castiel looked intently at Dean, his friend. There was genuine sorrow in his eyes. He placed his hand on Dean's arm, knowing that humans found physical contact reassuring. "I don't regret my choice. Only that I did not make it earlier, when we could have prevented Lucifer's escape."

Dean sat back, pulling away and running a hand over his face to hide the pain that statement caused. "Yeah well… Spilt milk, right?" he said before he rose and resumed his self-appointed task.

Castiel watched him in confusion. "I don't understand. What has wasted dairy products have to do with Lucifer's rise?" Dean chuckled in response. It was not the most joyous sound the hunter had ever made but it was genuine, so Castiel tried not to feel offended.

"It's a saying. 'No point in crying over spilt milk.' Meaning there's no point moping over things that are done and can't be changed."

"Ah, that is understandable then."

Silence fell between them. Castiel did not know what to say to make Dean resigned to his brother's fate—brothers, he corrected himself, for Adam Milligan was also in an unknown location held hostage to an angel's whims.

Then his stomach made a noise, like an angry lion, as it had before. It also felt odd. He stared down at it in concern.

"At least you have an appetite," Dean smiled slightly, so Castiel had to believe there was nothing about which to be concerned. "Here. Eat." The hunter placed a plate of food in front of him.

Dean sat by a second plate of the same foodstuffs and began to eat. Castiel picked up his utensil and did the same. The taste exploded on his tongue. Moist, sharp, peppery, sweet, hot, too much—Castiel couldn't process it. It was sheeting out his mind, senses shutting down… White… Grey. Black.

His next awareness was of looking up at Dean from the floor of the… kitchen—not 'food preparation area'.

"Cas, thank Christ," Dean gasped.

"Don't blaspheme," Castiel chided automatically.

"Then don't fucking pass out on me," Dean snarled, unrepentant. "What the hell was that?"

Very clearly, Castiel heard Dean's unspoken questions: Are you dying? Are you going to leave me, too? Castiel wondered if he should answer them anyway. He decided he did not have the energy to provide the level of reassurance Dean currently required. He chose a milder, less fraught response. "I was unprepared for the intensity of the experience."

"What experience?" Dean demanded. "You were eating frigging _eggs_."

Perhaps 'less fraught' was the wrong phrase. Differently fraught?

"The flavor was overwhelming." He still had it lingering on his tongue like little, sparkling bubbles. Or landmines.

Dean was staring at him in disbelief. "You've had eggs before. Never freaked you out like this."

"Before, I was an angel in a vessel. Now I _am_ the vessel," he explained. Dean continued to stare at him and Castiel barely refrained from sighing. He raised his hand, requesting assistance to return to an upright position. Dean helped him back into his chair without comment or fuss.

"There is always a distance between the vessel's senses and the perceptions of the angel within the vessel." The Heavenly Choir always sang. The Grace of Heaven was always calling. There was always the pull of wanting to be _elsewhere_. "That barrier is no longer there."

"So it was like egg flavor times a thousand?"

"Hmm," Castiel murmured agreement. He rested his aching head on his raised fist.

"You gotta eat, Cas," Dean protested.

"Hmm," he said again unenthusiastically.

"Toast. You should be able to eat the toast. There's nothing on it but butter." Dean reached over and cut Castiel's toast into squares—small squares. Then the hunter stared at him until he picked a piece up and put it in his mouth.

He took the time to let the moisture in his mouth break it down somewhat before he attempted to chew. It was… wonderful. He shut his eyes to fully experience it. He was aware of Dean's hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady, making sure he did not fall out of the chair again, but Dean had been correct. Although powerful, the buttered toast was not nearly as overwhelming as the eggs had been. He ate another small square, then another. The hollow yet roiling sensation in his stomach subsided as he ate.

Dean placed a small amount of egg on the next piece, the rich flavor balanced somewhat by the toast, and Castiel suddenly understood the sin of gluttony in a way he had not when pushed to it by Famine. Idly, he wondered what a hamburger would taste like now there was no impediment to his gustatory nerves.

"Here," Dean said presenting him with a cup of dark liquid. "It's coffee: some fancy Bolivian fair trade organic thing, but it smells good. I wasn't sure if it would be better or worse with stuff in it, so I left it black, no sugar. Sip it slow," he warned as Castiel raised the drink to his lips.

Castiel paused. He looked briefly at his friend. Dean was frowning worriedly, gaze flicking between the cup and Castiel's face.

"It's still kind of hot," Dean explained his concern.

Castiel nodded. "I will be careful." He blew on the surface of the liquid and could detect no significant release of heat. Still, Dean was worried so he lifted the cup carefully and sucked in a small mouthful.

Bitter. Warm. The sharpness of it was enough to make him blink. It cleared the memory of toast and egg from his mouth, and sent a pulse of energy shooting through his body.

"Huh."

Dean leaned forward. "Is it okay? We can add milk or sugar. Or both."

"This is satisfactory," Castiel responded after a moment. "Actually, it's quite refreshing."

Suddenly, Dean was smiling at him, wide and somehow young. "Dude, you've got great taste. Good coffee doesn't need any of that crap."

It was easier after that. Castiel would eat a couple small mouthfuls of toast and eggs then drink a small amount of coffee. Then he'd pause and let his system settle down.

He managed half the plate before a yawn caught and held him. His brain was shutting down, his energy dripping away, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

"Tired, huh," Dean teased gently after the fourth yawn in as many minutes. "Normal reaction for all the shit we've been through. Can you get back to the couch or do you need a hand?"

Castiel blinked. He turned to look at the entry to the living area. It didn't appear to be a great distance. "I believe I can manage."

"Okay, great. I'll clean up here. You go get yourself back under the covers.

He nodded and stood. His head filled with helium and he swayed.

"Whoa, shit." Strong hands gripped him and held him steady. "Stood up a bit too fast maybe."

Castiel was beyond caring. It didn't bother him that he required assistance. It was enough that he was moving closer to his goal. Three more steps. Two. Then Dean allowed him to collapse on the relatively soft surface. Dean lifted his feet and pulled the blanket over him, and he was warm and comfortable. Dark oblivion was calling to him with all the strength of a Heavenly Chorus, and Castiel allowed himself to fall.

.o0o.

Dean looked down at Cas. The guy had passed out again. A quick check showed no fever, he wasn't sweating, and his heart and breathing rhythms were normal.

He'd had a freak out over _eggs_, for God's sake.

Not that God had anything to do with anything, right now, Dean thought angrily. And if the bastard actually showed up in front of him, he'd be tempted to stab the son of a bitch. It probably wouldn't kill God, but it would make Dean feel marginally better.

Maybe…

Probably not, he conceded.

Castiel snuffled a little in his sleep, wrinkling his nose and frowning like a kitten, and it was bizarre enough to break Dean out of his mood. He pulled the blanket up a little more then went back into the kitchen to clean up.

It was too bad Lisa didn't have a dog. Castiel hadn't finished his breakfast and just looking at it made his own stomach lurch, but he hated wasting perfectly good food. He'd spent too many days as a child not having anything to eat, or not having enough for both him and Sam, at least.

When he was eleven he'd gotten shingles. Malnutrition, the doctor had told his dad. It was the last time Dad had left them without either a good supply of food or enough money to buy more. Not that the old man had stuck around to actually _cook_ it for them.

Nearly thirty years and a trip to Hell, and Dean could finally admit that John Winchester had been a flawed caretaker. Although, unlike Dean, he'd never let one them go to Hell…

Dean scrubbed the pan hard.

He needed to figure out a way to get Sam out of there and he needed to do it, like, _yesterday_. He couldn't let his baby bro stay in Hell no matter what he'd promised. Just… no. So he'd figure it out; find a way to separate Sam from Lucifer and bring him back.

The angels could probably do it—they'd brought _him_ back, after all—but he'd suck a Popsicle in the Sahara before he asked those twats for anything.

Bobby said he'd do some research, but he was only one guy, and he only had so much time to devote to this. He would have other priorities occasionally. Dean tried not to be angry at that.

However, Bobby wasn't the only one with old books. Dad had squirreled away quite a few in his various storage units. As soon as Cas was on his feet, Dean would go looking.

.o0o.

Lisa sat in her office with the door closed, and tried not to break either the phone or the pencil.

_"What d'you mean 'Dean's back'? Like, THE Dean? _That_ guy? The same guy who shows up a couple times a decade and totally messes you up."_

She'd debated who to tell first: her sister or her mother. Julie had beat Mom by a hair. Lisa wasn't sure why now.

Oh right—she needed something.

"_That _is_ the guy, isn't it?"_ Julie sighed in exasperation._ "What's he doing back? He has to want something. There's no other reason for him to show up _again_.–"_

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Lisa finally broke into her sister's tirade.

"_I'm sorry, Lise, but if he'd thought you were so wonderful, he would've stuck around two years ago."_

"I explained that to you–"

"_You did not explain it,"_ her sister snorted. "_You spouted some macho garbage about 'having a job to do' and 'having different priorities.' As if raising kids isn't a real-man's job. Frankly, he sounded like the typical loser-jerk you usually go for."_

"Jeez-us, Julie!"

"_I call 'em like I see them,"_ her sister said and Lisa could picture her, on the couch, feet on the coffee table, both her toes and her pregnant belly pointed up to God.

"Well then you need to get your glasses checked," Lisa ground out. "Dean's a good man. He's always been a good man. Just because he doesn't work in an office, or go to church, or do any of the things you judge people by, doesn't change it."

"_Is this going to turn into another lecture on looking beneath the surface?" _Julie's voice was lightly dismissive.

"I don't know, sis. Is this going to turn into a lecture on my life choices corrupting Ben?"

It was quiet for a moment, both of them realizing that they could either back away now or they'd be getting into it again. Lisa felt bad, a little—Julie _was_ eight months pregnant—but she was also (and more frequently) a small-minded, big-mouthed cow who always seemed to be embarrassed by her never-married, single-mother big sister.

As a preview of what this conversation was going to be like with her mother, it was hardly encouraging.

"Look," she began again, keeping her voice level, and reasonable, and non-accusatory out of sheer willpower. "I actually didn't call to talk about Dean. I was wondering if you still had all those old clothes of Paul's. The ones you were getting rid of."

"_I thought Dean was a 'big guy'?"_ Her sister's voice was cautious. Julie's husband was a couple generous inches shy of six feet.

"Yeah, um..." Deep breath, she told herself, then just spit it out. "It's for the other guy who came with Dean."

Lisa held the phone away from her ear, hoping to dim her sister's outraged shriek.

It didn't work.

.o0o.

"You're still here," were Ben's first words. The kid stood in the kitchen doorway, hands gripping the sides as if he needed the support.

"Gonna be here a while, I think," Dean responded mildly. He had papers spread out on the kitchen table, records of John Winchester's paranoid scattering of belongings, and a timetable—how long to travel there, how long to search, how long to get back. He could hit them all in two weeks. Probably.

"How's your friend? The, uh, angel." Ben didn't step into the kitchen.

"Still sleeping." Dean asked a question of his own, "You usually have something to eat or drink when you get home?" Sam always had. His stomach had activated like an alarm clock, the moment they'd crossed the threshold.

"Um, juice and some fruit, usually."

"Well okay then," Dean got up from the table. "You get your monkey food and I'll grab you some juice." He was at the cupboard pulling down a glass before it dawned on him that this wasn't his role. Ben wasn't his responsibility.

Screw it. Getting the kid some juice didn't mean he was putting down roots; just that he was polite. "You need the table for homework?" he asked, because that was polite too.

"Only a corner of it," Ben replied. "Got some math homework."

"Yeah? I hated math." Dean had hated school period. It hadn't been fun being the new guy all the time, and once he'd started hunting, it had seemed even more pointless. And shallow. Who cared who'd slept with who when there were monsters out there that had to be stopped?

He put the glass of OJ on the table, close to Ben. "I always found I learned what I needed to do the job."

"That's what Mom says too," Ben gave him a small smile as he took out his textbook. "But I actually don't mind math. It's a lot more fun than English lit or history."

Dean had to give the kid that one.

He poured himself a coffee before settling back into his research. Sometimes some of these old books had been PDFed and posted online. It was all a matter of knowing where to look. Just because he hadn't had any luck in the last six hours didn't mean it wasn't out there.

"So are you planning on staying long?"

The question came out of nowhere. Dean looked up from his laptop and realized that Ben had finished his snack, and his homework, and was just sitting there watching him.

"What?"

Ben repeated the question. "You planning on staying long, or just long enough to heal up?"

Shit. Tough one. "It kind of depends on your mother and a couple other things." Like how soon he could figure out a way to get Sam out of the Pit.

"It has something to do with your brother, doesn't it?" Ben said and Dean jumped. "For some reason he's not with you, so that means you gotta figure something out and then you're gonna go get him."

"It may not be possible," Dean said even though he didn't believe it. There had to be a way… "Or it may take a really long time, but yeah. That's exactly what I'm going to do."

"You could do that anywhere," Ben pointed out.

"Could," Dean nodded agreement. "But it'll be a lot nicer to be here, while I figure it out."

Ben looked away, rolling his lips as he thought. "You're not–" he started.

Dean saw Ben brace himself and knew that whatever the boy wanted to say it was taking a lot of courage to get it out, which meant it was either embarrassing or offensive.

"You're not going to get her hopes up, are you?" Ben said in a rush. "Don't make promises and be all nicey-nicey, if all you want to do is, you know, _kiss_ her and… and do sex stuff."

"Do sex stuff', huh?" Dean hoped his face wasn't as red as Ben's, but it was a faint hope. "I haven't discussed any of that with your mother yet–" Never planned to actually "–but I'll let her know that… that finding Sam is my priority–"

"That is supremely unwise," a low voice growled from the doorway.

Dean shot out of his chair and helped Cas the last few steps to the table. "Should you be out of bed?" he asked.

"This body… _I_ needed to eliminate wastes." For a moment the former angel looked desolate. Then, with an internal shake that Dean could almost see, Cas shrugged it aside to look intently at Dean. "Rescuing Sam may not be impossible, but it is… ill-advised," he stated firmly.

Dean's jaw clenched in automatic rejection: he wasn't leaving Sam down there.

"Lucifer will not be pleased that his plan failed. He will want retribution–"

"You mean revenge," Dean interrupted. His hands had formed fists so tight he could feel the loss of circulation.

Cas nodded. "Revenge then," he corrected, "and the only entity available from which to extract that _revenge_ is Sam."

Dean barked out a bitter laugh. "That's not an argument against rescuing Sam," he spat. "It's another reason—a damn good reason—for doing it right the fuck now."

"Mom doesn't like people swearing in the house," Ben said.

Dean filed it, ignored it—bigger fish. "I can't leave him down there. I won't."

"If you resurrect Sam, it is highly probable that Lucifer will come with him—he did say 'yes', after all—and then the Apocalypse will start again. That means everything we've done, everything we've sacrificed, and everyone who died to prevent that very thing… Wasted and pointless. Worse than pointless," he corrected, "Thrown away."

Dean knew that everything Cas was saying was absolutely correct. A lot of people had worked hard to save the world, not just him and Sam. There was Cas, giving up his Grace. Bobby was in a wheelchair. Gabriel had died. More importantly, so had Ellen and Jo.

But if he could find a way to get Sam out of the cage without his tag-along…

"What do you mean 'the Apocalypse will happen'?" Ben's light voice broke into the silent showdown between hunter and fallen angel. His eyes were wide in awed disbelief. "And how is Sam trapped with Lucifer, 'cause I'm assuming you mean Lucifer the Devil, right, so that means he's in Hell."

Dean opened his mouth to brush Ben off with some excuse, because no kid needed to know that the Devil was real and was actively trying to destroy the world, but Castiel was quicker.

"Sam was manipulated into freeing Lucifer to walk the Earth. If things had gone the way he—Lucifer—had planned–"

"And the angels," Dean interrupted, because that whole mess wasn't just Sam's fault. "They wanted it too."

"Indeed," Castiel acquiesced. "Many of my brothers and sisters were in favor of holding the… showdown between Michael and Lucifer."

"And that would've triggered the Apo…paclips?" Ben asked.

"That would have _been_ the Apocalypse," Castiel gently corrected. "Their power and their enmity would have ensured the loss of a quarter of the world's population. Maybe more."

"That and the fact that they're both selfish dickwads," Dean muttered.

The side of Cas' mouth kicked up. "That was also a factor."

"And Sam stopped it?" Now the kids eyes were wide in awed hero-worship.

Castiel opened his mouth to answer, but this time Dean beat him to it. "Sam and Cas stopped it. Sam trapped Lucifer inside himself, and Cas pushed them into the cage."

"Through a doorway that _you_ opened," Castiel remarked. "It took all of us to accomplish it."

Dean's lip curled up in a bitter smile. "Way to go, Team Free Will."

Ben, young enough or oblivious enough to ignore all the subtext, cut into their conversation without apologies. "So now you gotta figure out a way to get Sam out, but leave Lucifer behind," he summarized bluntly.

He made it sound so simple.

"Yeah, that's what we gotta do." Dean agreed because he was going to _make_ it that simple.

"How?"

Silence. The refrigerator hummed. The air vents whistled softly.

Okay, so it wasn't that simple.

Dean unclenched his jaw. "I'll figure out something: a spell, or a ritual."

"Only God has enough power to do what you need, Dean." Castiel's eyes were filled with a sad sympathy that Dean very definitely didn't want.

"And God's done a runner, I know." His words made all expression leave the former-angel's face and Dean almost wished he could take them back. "It's not your fault," he said even knowing it was weak comfort.

A pensive silence filled the small kitchen as each of the occupants wandered in their own thoughts. The refrigerator shut off but the air vents still whistled softly. In the distance a dog barked.

Suddenly the room felt thick and small, and it smelled like the air after a lightning strike—tension and deadly power just waiting to strike.

"Castiel."

Just one word and Dean knew who'd dropped in on them.

"Michael," Castiel said. Dean said "Adam," because maybe he was still–

"Adam is no longer here," the archangel replied. His—its?—voice was precise, but without concern.

"You killed him," Dean stated bleakly. Another one he hadn't been able to save.

"He was already dead," Michael corrected. "Ghouls, remember?" He lifted a hand before Dean could comment. "What Zachariah did, the extra time he gave your half-brother, it was a gift. It would never have become permanent. And his soul is in Heaven, as promised."

Dean's fists clenched and he really, really wanted that damn angel sword right now. "Did you know?" he demanded.

"Does it matter?" Michael countered, sounding like cold, condescending _smarm_. "The present is set and it is the future we must deal with now."

Just like that, the archangel dismissed the humans in the room as beneath notice. Instead he focused on his sibling, the disowned younger child. "Castiel, do you realize what you did?" he asked, gently condemning. "Do you understand the consequences—not just for yourself, but for all your brothers and sisters?"

"You said the orders came from our Father," Castiel replied serenely. "You lied."

Dean's mouth went dry. Cas, freaking _Cas_, was taking on Michael when he had nothing in the bank.

Could anybody spell S-M-I-T-E?

Ben opened his mouth but Dean put a restraining hand on the boy's shoulder. Drawing the attention of the angels was never a good thing.

Michael smiled at Castiel in disappointed understanding. "We had everyone's best interests in mind, Castiel," he explained.

"Not the best interests of the Winchesters, and certainly not those of the rest of Father's creations." Castiel looked at his former sibling and current ruler of Heaven, and his gaze didn't accuse, didn't blame. It accepted.

Dean realized that Cas didn't expect to survive this encounter. That's why he was saying what he really felt.

"You disobeyed." Michael took a step closer and Dean's hands itched for a weapon—any weapon—no matter how useless it would be.

"I was there when our Father gave us his orders concerning humans," Cas continued. "I remember what He said even though I allowed myself to forget. Nothing I did to stop the Apocalypse disobeyed those orders."

Michael's smile broadened on Adam's face.

"Did you stop it?' the archangel asked. "Or did you just delay the inevitable?"

"What do you mean?" Dean couldn't help asking. His brother was in a freaking _hole_ with freaking _Lucifer._ No way was that a just a delaying tactic.

Michael ignored him. "You will never reclaim your Grace, Castiel. You will never again know the bliss of Revelation. You will never again be an Angel of the Lord. And, when we fix what you have done, it will all have been in vain. I cannot think of a more fitting punishment." Michael didn't change Adam's face from its look of fake sympathy. It reminded Dean of Alistair, when the demon apologized for being forced to hurt him.

Castiel jumped forward, mouth open to protest or plead, but Michael was already gone. Nothing left but the sound of feathers pushing against the ground.

"Holy shit!" Ben said in shock.

"Your mother does not like curse words, you said," Castiel reminded the boy.

"Can he do it?" Dean asked.

Castiel acknowledged that it was likely Dean's first thought. Quite possibly his only one, because it would mean his brother would be rescued, but Sam Winchester's fate wasn't Castiel's first concern. He sat down heavily, and leaned his forehead on his braced hand. He tried to reason past the pain caused by his brother's—former brother's—words.

Had Michael been posturing or was he truly capable of doing what he claimed?

He was the most powerful angel in their ranks, God's Most Favored One. He did not boast of tasks completed, no matter how difficult. He was coldly, brutally, efficient when on a mission and there was no doubt that the Archangel considered his battle with Lucifer to be a mission left incomplete. It would therefore be logical to assume that Michael had not lied about his ability to free Lucifer from the cage.

However angels, as Castiel had discovered, could and did lie, even if they did not label it as such. Exaggerations, interpretations, obfuscations… rebranded as necessary evils.

Had Michael been lying? It would be better for the world if he had, but worse for his friend.

"I do not know," he finally admitted. "He believes there is a way, but that is no guarantee. Of anything."

"If he does manage to get Sam out of–" Dean sputtered to a stop before taking a breath and starting again. "If he gets Sam out, _does_ it mean that the Apocalypse will reboot?"

"Yes," Castiel confirmed. "Because it is Lucifer they will pull out of the cage. Sam will merely be along for the ride." The only hope Castiel could give Dean was that it would be virtually impossible for Michael to manage the task. It was not the kind of hope his friend was looking for.

The hunter shot to his feet, pushed back his sleeves, rubbed nervous hands on his thighs and then gripped his waist, before locking his arms over his chest defensively.

Castiel recognized the actions as Dean's need to be doing something, _anything_, while having no idea where to begin.

"Would it be possible for me to have some juice or other sustenance?" he asked as a diversion then watched as Dean searched the room for a clock.

"It's a bit late to have a snack… I think. Ben, what time does your mom get home?"

"5:30, 6:00," Ben answered. "Depends on if any of her students want to talk to her."

"It's nearly 5:30 now," Dean said. "I better clean up my mess. Can you get Cas some juice?"

Ben shrugged and walked around him to the kitchen. Dean piled his papers on top of his laptop in no order that Castiel could discern, and carried everything into the living room. "You know," he said as he disappeared, "We should maybe make supper for her. It might be nice for her to come home to a cooked meal."

"I suppose," Ben agreed with another shrug. He held out the glass of orange juice and Castiel took it with a murmur of thanks. He was tempted to drink it as quickly as possible but then he remembered the eggs from this morning and decided to take small sips instead.

It was glorious.

Sweet yet tart, thick and filled with flavor that expanded inside his mouth until it overwhelmed his olfactory nerve. He swallowed and he could feel the cold acidity flowing down his esophagus into the stomach, where the sensation was lost.

It was no wonder humans become so attached to physical things if this was how they truly experienced the world. However, he had observed both Dean and Sam during eating and they evinced no such reaction. Perhaps one grew immune to the power of taste the longer one lived with it?

It was a sad thought, so Castiel refused to think it.

Instead he returned his awareness to the kitchen where Dean and the boy, Ben, were discussing what to make for supper. Dean was arguing for hamburgers. Ben desired pizza. Castiel suddenly had a clear memory of his vessel preparing supper for his family. On a cooking surface—the stove—Jimmy had been stirring a pot filled with mashed and flavored tomatoes, and waiting for a large pot of water to boil. It had been the first time Jimmy had trusted him enough to Listen. Castiel had promised to keep Jimmy's body safe and he had. Then.

He hadn't been quite as successful over the subsequent years.

But he had Jimmy's memories of the flavor of the dish, and remembered the name of it.

"Spaghetti," he said into the endless debate. Both Dean and Ben turned to stare at him. "I would very much like to try spaghetti."

Dean and Ben looked at each other and shrugged.

"Sure, we can do spaghetti," Dean said. "Your mom has spaghetti sauce, right?"

"Yeah, it's in the fridge. She always doctors it up though," the boy warned even as he moved toward the cold storage device—the fridge—to retrieve it. "She adds real tomatoes and veggies, spices and stuff."

"We can do that," Dean said with confidence.

"Perhaps I can help," Castiel offered. Jimmy had stood next to the pot of tomato sauce chopping… something aromatic, before he tossed it in and stirred.

"Nah, man. You just sit there and recuperate," Dean replied. "Last thing we need is to be hauling your ass off the floor again."

"Watch your mouth, Dean," Ben said with emphasis. He gave Dean a baleful look and Dean returned it for a few seconds. Then the hunter gave a short, sharp laugh.

"Brat," he said with a quick smile. Ben smiled back.

Seeing it, Castiel knew it wouldn't take much for Dean to become the boy's role model. Would it be a good experience for either of them? Castiel could no longer explore all the futures that could result from such a thing, and he refused to guess or hope. Instead, he would accept and let the future unfurl as it would.

So Castiel sipped his orange juice and watched the pair work in the small food prep—the kitchen area. They did not move easily around each other—there were many near misses—but they evened out somewhat by the time Lisa arrived home. She was both surprised and pleased at their efforts, and once she'd forced them to make a salad to go with the pasta, they all sat down to dinner.

It was quite good, Castiel conceded, but not anything like the meal of Jimmy's memories.

During the following days, Lisa's sister sent over a large plastic bin filled with clothes. They were worn but serviceable, and just his size. They put it in Lisa's office as the only unclaimed private room left in the residence. The tiny room barely had space for it between the office desk and the exercise equipment, and Castiel was infuriatingly unstable, but it was better than changing in the living room or bathroom.

Lisa didn't agree.

The third time they knocked over her free-weight stand, she had them move all her exercise equipment to the basement, and replace it a twin bed—also from her sister. She made them scrub and dust and paint as well, but that activity was somehow relaxing. It was how they spent their first week. Then she gave them the larger room with her larger bed, and she moved into the smaller one.

They formed a routine. Dean would put out clothes for him to wear. Upon awakening, Castiel would take them into the bathroom. There, he would clean himself—toilet, shower, teeth, hair, and shaving—before dressing in his borrowed clothes.

Jimmy hadn't liked shaving, but had considered it necessary. Castiel, though he refused to perform the task more than once a day, didn't mind it now that there was an electric razor to use instead of Lisa's flimsy plastic blades.

Holding the pink razors… It had brought some of Jimmy's memories to the fore—memories of Jimmy watching his wife shave her legs and inner thighs—quite high on her inner legs, actually.

Jimmy had enjoyed it so strongly that Castiel's body reacted to the memory. He'd asked Dean about it and had—to their great embarrassment—been directed to online clips of men pleasuring themselves. Dean, cheeks only slightly colored, had sent him to the shower to 'practice', and he'd gone, because they both needed the escape.

They never discussed it again.

During his masturbatory explorations, Castiel was only peripherally aware of the void in his being where his Grace had once been. That alone was worth the awkward fumbling and embarrassment. After climaxing, he would feel better physically and mentally. In fact, he was often relaxed enough to go back to the couch and sleep for another couple hours. Sleeping and masturbating helped alleviate his internal emptiness.

Dean never interfered with the second activity, but he interrupted the first.

Dean woke him up, bullied him into dressing, and then forced him outside, out of the house. The first time, all Dean had made him do was sit on the deck in a reclining chair with a blanket and a bottle of water, while Dean and Lisa worked in the basement. Castiel had slept in the sun and enjoyed it very much. Then he'd been bullied into Lisa's exercise area, and Dean made him do a simple workout.

It was soon obvious that, although not at his former angelic levels, he was still considerably stronger and faster than Dean. He was still a warrior. It was merely that he no longer had a war to fight, or even a unit with which to fight. He was alone.

He didn't think about it as they drove to Cincinnati where Dean's father had another storage locker. Instead, he allowed himself to be lulled into a semi-doze by the Impala's familiar growl. When they arrived, Dean made him help sort through his father's relics. There was much weaponry, a small number of personal memorabilia, and a fairly large amount of occult items and books.

"This should not be left unguarded," he said, holding a small goat figurine carved from animal bone.

"Bad mojo?" Dean asked, barely looking up from his search through his father's books.

"It has some power which could be put to foul purpose."

"'Put to foul purpose'. Nice phrasing," Dean snickered. He jerked his head at a cardboard shoe box. "Put it in there." Castiel did as instructed. He found a couple other items he did not feel comfortable leaving behind. Each time he asked Dean, and each time Dean nodded towards the small box.

By the time Dean was ready to leave, there were several boxes to be loaded into the Impala—mostly books that Dean had selected.

He told Castiel that he needed to research protections for the house. The statement was true to a point. However, having seen the titles on some of the volumes, Castiel wasn't worried that Dean would find a spell to free Sam and Lucifer in any of them.

And the outing _had_ been pleasant.

One week and four storage rooms later, Dean gave him the task of warding the house. He left it up to Castiel to decide which protections they should use and where they should go.

"You can see things I can't," Dean said, and it was true.

It was also true that Castiel couldn't disagree with the need for protections. After all, Michael had appeared _in Lisa's kitchen_. He had threatened Castiel, and would have no qualms about carrying out his threat, even if it destroyed the house and killed the occupants.

Unfortunately, it was not as simple as merely deciding it needed to be done.

During their dinner conversations, he discussed the project with the other members of the household. Dean shrugged. Ben listened but didn't contribute.

Only Lisa had opinions, and they were always clearly stated. Lisa insisted that there be no harmful side effects: not to the house ("no holes they couldn't patch") and not to their 'chi', the energy that flowed through a human's body and could—according to certain beliefs—affect their moods and their health.

"I won't swap a possibly-huge future danger for a minor-but-certain one now," she said mulishly. "We've done that on a large scale and I'm still not sure it was worth it."

Castiel did not understand the reference and she stopped to explain 9/11 to him. He'd been aware of it, of course, but he'd been stationed in South America, monitoring a weakness in the veils between realities, so he hadn't known the full import of it. Wouldn't have cared, if he were honest. Human security measures meant little to an angel.

He sat at the table, scribbling notes on a roughly drawn plan of the house, plotting spheres of influence and trying to decide whether the overlapping energy signatures would be harmonious enough to satisfy Lisa.

Dean sat beside him, reading through his father's books. Ben was also there doing more homework. Lisa flitted between them and the kitchen as she made cookies.

Dean, of course, knew many of the symbols he'd chosen, but Lisa and Ben did not. The ensuing conversation was engaging and lively. It involved much use of the laptop, and many side-trips into tangential subjects. It reminded him of the discussions he and his siblings had sometimes had. Guard duty was usually uneventful so often the only activity was exploring each other's knowledge and opinions. They asked each other questions and discussed possible solution to problems they encountered. It was companionable and… comfortable.

Of course, it was those discussions that had led Aniel into rebelling, and falling, and becoming doomed Anna Milton. He had apologized to Anna for his part in her recapture. He had felt guilt for his part in her death. Now, he was following in her footsteps, for he, too, had Fallen.

He put the memory out of his mind. He had a task—a worthy task. Even if it felt as if he was creating a flimsy fortress.

It took him two such evenings before he felt he had the most efficient design. Both Lisa and Dean approved. Now he and Dean had to execute it.

They'd already decided to use paints a tone lighter than the existing colors. It would be easy to dismiss them as sloppy brushwork if the light hit them. Dean bent and twisted wire into the symbols Castiel has designated for the exterior of Lisa's house. They were to be nailed to the underside of the decks, the fence behind the trees, and the back wall of the car port.

Castiel discovered that using a hammer wasn't as simple as it looked, and only Ben was entertained by watching his thumbnail turn black. After that, he was banned from doing anything but painting and cleaning.

He stared at his thumbnail, felt it throb in time with his pulse, counting out the moments of his new life, and tried not to regret the choice he'd made.

.o0o.

Dean should've known it would come back to digging.

During the talk about warding the property, Lisa had suggested planting protective flowers and shit around the place. Cas had agreed, because the guy needed something useful to do, so now here Dean was with a shovel in his hands. Just like old times.

While he and Cas painted symbols inside and hung symbols outside, Lisa marked the area of the yard that they wanted dug up, and now all he had to do was move—thinking was optional.

Lisa decided to do it on the Saturday, make it a family thing. That was fine as long as none of them started talking about Hell and Sam. Or demons and angels. The future…

Dean put the radio on a classic rock station and turned the volume up.

He was in front, turning over shovelfuls of dirt. Ben was behind him. He broke up the clumps of grass and tossed the bigger stones. The kid was covered in dirt, and was spending half his time trying to rescue worms, but at least he was happy. He nattered non-stop about the video games he'd gotten Dean and Cas to play with him.

Dean had watched the kid play a racing game with rocket launchers and freeze rays. Like a fool, he'd challenged him because Dean might not have played many video games, but he knew how to race in real life. Of course, he'd got his ass thoroughly kicked, and now Ben was giving him advice on how to improve his game.

Ben. Advising _him._

At least his lecture didn't stir up memories or guilt. Dean could deal with the embarrassment of having been beaten by _exploding flowers_ if it kept his mind off Sam.

It mostly did. Unfortunately, Lisa followed Ben. She was digging small holes and filling them with a nauseating, all-natural fertilizer. It smelled like long-dead things, and Dean had to walk away a couple times.

Cas finished up their assembly line by putting the little plants in the holes and pushing the dirt back around them. He brushed their petals and marveled at their design, but he didn't once mention God. Dean tried not to find that discouraging… _more_ discouraging.

The past couple weeks had been hellish.

Worry for Sam; looking a solution that didn't seem to exist while the clock ticked. Worry for Cas because the guy seemed determined to become a living shadow and he had to nag the former angel all the time. He was on tenterhooks around Lisa and Ben, because he didn't know how to fit himself into their lives; wasn't sure if he should. There was the fear that more angels, or demons, or even other hunters like those douchebags Roy and Walt, would find out where they'd holed up. And apparently, Lisa's mother was someone to be feared, though maybe more for Lisa than for Dean.

Compared to all that, digging in the dirt was freaking relaxing.

Birds singing, Ben babbling, the occasional decent song on the radio. Typical suburban blahblahblah that made it easy for Dean to slip into a working trance.

Then Ben asked his question.

"What about some other god?"

Lisa looked up from where she was kneeling on the grass. "What are you talking about?"

"Cas said that only god—his god— had the power to get Sam out of his cage in Hell, but his god's not around so all Dean needs to do is find a different god." He smiled as if it was the most logical thing in the world… and it kinda-sorta was.

"Would a different god have the power? Or the access?" she asked. She took advantage of the moment to drink some water.

Dean looked at Cas, (dressed in cargo shorts since he'd refused to use cut-offs or sweatpants), and waited for him to answer. Cas said nothing. Instead, the former Warrior of God gently placed a green sproutling into the ground and built the dirt back up around it.

"Cas!" Dean called, demanding a response.

"It is inadvisable," Castiel repeated.

Dean rolled his eyes. "It could work," he interpreted. "But we'd have to pick the right god."

"No god would do it out of kindness," Cas pointed out. "There would be a cost."

Dean snorted. "There's always a cost." He took a drink from his own bottle of lukewarm water.

"I will not allow you to sell your soul again," Cas stated bluntly. "Even though the destination would not be Hell, Sam would not appreciate the gesture."

"Dean sold his soul?"

Shit.

They'd forgotten Ben and Lisa's presence. Or rather, he'd forgotten. Cas most likely hadn't cared one way or another. Now, however, Lisa was standing up and moving towards him with a slow, stalking gait.

She came to a halt right in front of him.

"Two years ago," she said, "after you stopped the changlings and rescued Ben. That's what you were talking about before you left. When you talked about things happening; things that made you realize you were 'leaving nothing behind but a car'."

Dean opened his mouth to head this off since he hadn't told anyone about that and he had no intentions of changing that statistic, but Lisa was holding a sharp prongy thing in her hand that would make a decent weapon in a slasher flick.

"Don't try to deny it," she said, pointing the sharp end at him. "You sold your soul to save Sam."

"Don't people who do that go to Hell?" Ben piped up, eyes wide and scared. "I mean, that's how it goes in the movies."

"He did descend into Hell," Cas said—the fucker. "He was rescued."

"Once I'd done what your angel pals wanted," Dean spat out accusingly, hoping it would throw Lisa, and Ben, off topic but Cas just nodded and agreed.

Lisa stood there, jaw flexing, practically vibrating with frustration. At least she didn't hit him.

"I think," she growled. "That after we're finished here, we're all going to go into the house, sit at the kitchen table, and you two –" she pointed her claw at each of them "–are going to tell us the full tale. Not just a recap of what happened last year! The whole thing, from the beginning."

"Lisa…" Dean started to protest. She held up her hand to stop him.

"We deserve to know everything about what we're stepping into. And we can't help you if we're ignorant."

"You shouldn't help him at all," Cas argued.

"We'll decide that for ourselves, right Ben?"

Ben, who wasn't stupid and who knew that monsters were real, swallowed nervously, but he was still only eleven, and probably thought this was better than watching _The Matrix,_ so of course, the kid nodded.

This was going to suck sooo much.


	3. The Usual Suspects

Lisa watched Dean struggle to explain what had happened to him since Ben's eighth birthday, and finally understood the phrase 'painful to watch'.

He would start, stop, swallow rapidly for a bit, and then he would begin again. Only then he'd backtrack a year or a couple decades to explain _other_ things that had laid the groundwork for his and Sam's "Destinies".

She had sent Ben over to Chris' house when Dean started to describe the horrific deaths of his mom and his brother's girlfriend. Ben didn't need to know the details. Sure, he watched violent movies, but he _knew_ those were make-believe. This was real people being cut up and burned.

Ben had grumbled, of course, but Chris' company was strong incentive to go along with it. Now it was just the three adults and there was no longer any need to expunge the uglier parts of the story. So Castiel wasn't. Death upon death. Betrayal and manipulation. Torture…

Dean had been tortured in Hell…

He'd rapped out a short, sharp "no" when the breaking of the First Seal had been mentioned. Then he'd turned away from them when Castiel had ignored his order. Now, Lisa longed to go to him, but Dean he'd already rebuffed her once.

Why he thought he didn't deserve comfort for surviving all the crap that had been thrown at him, Lisa didn't know. Didn't matter, either. She'd offered. He'd rejected, and now she had to accept his decision and let him stare out the kitchen window into the back yard.

At least the story was going much quicker now that Castiel was telling it.

"… Ultimately," he said, "the essence of the tale is that the angels, being without our Father's guidance and desiring to return to Heaven, took it upon themselves to manipulate the Winchester family for their own purposes. They did not hunt the demon Azazel, although they could have. Instead they used me and they used Dean to point Azazel at Mary Winchester."

Dean looked at him sharply, "They did _what?_" His face flushed an angry red. "You mean, I really could've savedher? If I hadn't gone back."

"You didn't know," Castiel said, staring at Dean. "Neither of us realized the scope of their plan."

"No, I didn't," Dean answered, words clipped, voice tight. "But I should've guessed. Fucking _angels_."

"Language," Lisa chided automatically. Dean glared at her for it, but she barely noticed. "So the 'destiny' that Michael talked about was just one big, long, con."

Castiel looked like he wanted to sigh, but he glanced at Dean and refrained.

"Any time, while the brothers were growing up, my superiors could have… 'stepped in', " he said. "They did not. They could have saved Jessica Moore. They did not. They did not prevent John Winchester's deal at the hospital, or intervene when Sam was taken to Cold Oak. They could have prevented Dean's deal. We could have been sent in to rescue him sooner." Castiel shrugged, looking at the floor. "Any number of actions could have derailed the breaking of the First Seal. It was not his fault."

Dean snorted in disagreement, but he didn't turn back to join the conversation.

Again, Castiel ignored him. "He was a tool. Just as I, and the Garrison, were tools. The forces of Hell were their tools, as were the _actual_ tools of Hell."

Lisa shifted in her seat. "You mean… pitchforks?"

Castiel searched through his knowledge for the reference.

"Those are used on farms," he pointed out. "By humans. No, the tools of Hell are behaviors such as lying, scheming, and blackmail."

"And murder," Dean reminded them.

"That also. No. We were tools in that Michael wanted the Winchesters as Vessels," Castiel explained. "Sam for Lucifer, and Dean for Michael himself. Then my brothers could continue a battle begun before humans domesticated wolves."

Lisa stared at Dean's back, stiff and forbidding. "And to be Michael's, um, vessel, Dean had to go to Hell and be tortured."

"Yes."

Dean kept his back to the room. Castiel thought the hunter was trying desperately to pretend the discussion was not about him. It was likely Dean was either crying or resisting the impulse to hit something.

He could hear Lisa swallow meaning her questions weren't over.

"It's done now, right?" she asked hopefully. "The Apocalypse-Armageddon thing has been averted?"

"Yes."

For another millennium or two.

Unless Dean managed to rescue his brother

"So why are you here?" she asked abruptly. "I mean, Heaven won… Kind of. Doesn't that mean you get to go home?"

Castiel shifted his gaze to the pattern on the floor. "I am no longer an angel. I could not return to Heaven even if Michael had won." He had said it many times in the past seventeen days, and it still caused his lungs to grow tight.

"However, Michael did not win. Nobody 'won'." Castiel remembered to use his fingers to make air quotes. "The confrontation between Lucifer and Michael did not happen."

"What he means is, until Lucifer's dead, the angels don't get to go home," Dean said from his place at the window.

"Yes," Castiel agreed. "That is what I mean."

"So you're stuck here… as a human," Lisa said gently.

Castiel nodded but stayed silent. His throat was now tight as well as his lungs. It would have been impossible to speak. Lisa put her hand over his in a gesture he recognized as one of offering comfort. Her skin was warm and he found himself turning his hand over and gripping hers before he'd made the conscious decision to do so. He realized that, although Dean had been supportive and understanding, the hunter had not been comforting. Perhaps, considering Sam's fate, he had no comfort to offer.

Castiel tightened his grip on Lisa's hand and decided to enjoy the sensation for as long as it lasted.

"So what this means is, you two both need to build a new life."

"Not without Sam," Dean interrupted to state harshly.

Castiel barely refrained from sighing. "It is what he asked you to do, and you promised him you would try."

"He can do both," Lisa said before Dean could shout at him. "Build a new life and look into how to save his brother."

It was an interesting qualification, Castiel thought. Accepting of Dean's need to rescue his brother while encouraging him to become stable, it was the perfect thing to say. And since Castiel deemed it highly unlikely that Dean _would_ find a way (or a god) to free his brother, it was probably that the hunter would, over time, grow to accept his new life. Dean was stubborn, but he wasn't insane. He would eventually accept that Sam was beyond his reach.

He just had to keep Dean from rejecting the compromise.

"Am I to assume Jimmy Novak's life once again?" he asked. "He and his family were located in Illinois, which is not a considerable distance from here, but I am not sure they remained in the vicinity."

"Cas, you can't go back to being Jimmy," Dean stated. "You've been remembering bits of his life, sure, but that's not enough to be that woman's husband or their child's father. And what about in-laws, or Jimmy's parents? They'll notice a difference right away. We did."

Lisa stared. "You met Castiel's vessel?"

"Yeah. Once," Dean confirmed.

"That's kind of… cool. Odd, but cool." She paused. "Did he tell you what it was like?"

"Well, having an angel inside him didn't 'enlighten' him or turn him into some über-spiritual dude," Dean said repressively. "He was still an average guy. He'd had a family and a mortgage, and he'd believed it when an angel said that God needed him. Now he hasn't got a wife or a kid… Or a life."

"Dean," Lisa murmured a warning.

Dean ignored her. "Ninety percent of what's out there wants to eat us or use us, so don't say it's 'cool'. It's not. It's scary and dangerous and fucking useless."

"Dean!" Lisa stood up. "That's enough. You're hurting and you're worried, I get that, but you won't use that kind of language in my house."

The hunter glowered at her but she didn't back down. Tension rose.

Finally, Dean gave a short, quick nod. "I'm gonna go wash the car. Or something," he said. He slammed through the back door, and was gone. The quiet he left behind was tense and unhappy, punctuated by the heavy clomp of Dean's boots on the deck outside.

Castiel flexed his hand and missed Lisa's comforting strength.

She cleared her throat. "So if you and Dean are out of the fight, why did you put those symbols all over the house?"

Castiel raised his gaze to her. "Protection is never wasted."

"Cas!" Dean shouted from outside. "You got a visitor!" Castiel froze in shock.

"Who would be visiting you?" Lisa voiced Castiel's thoughts aloud.

Who, aside from Michael, knew he was here? His mind raced but achieved no resolution.

"Cas! Get your feathery butt out here!" Dean's voice brooked no delay.

When he stood, his hand automatically went to smooth the tie he no longer wore. In the casual shirt and baggy shorts that Lisa's brother-in-law had provided, the former angel felt underdressed and unprepared for whatever he might encounter. Nonetheless, he kept his steps firm and confident as he moved from the house to the enclosed back deck, which was fully warded with Enochian sigils. A slim door led to the covered car-port where the Impala currently sat. Lisa's small, sleek vehicle was tucked in behind it as if requiring shelter from bullies.

The car-port was also fully warded, or at least as warded as they could manage for a partially open structure. At the far end, closest the street, stood a slim, blonde female in a plain, dark suit and white shirt.

Dean was standing between her and the back door. "She looks like a fed but she says she knows you." The hunter was next to the Impala's trunk, one hand on the key in the lock, but he hadn't opened it.

Castiel squinted, somewhat hampered by looking from darkness into light, and somewhat more hampered by the loss of his ability to See beyond the surface of material things. Still, there was a… crackle, for want of a better description, surrounding the woman.

He didn't need his Grace to recognize _what_ she was. However, he still didn't know which angel was using her as its vessel.

"She's an angel," he said to Dean in an attempt to force the angel to identify itself.

"Yeah, I got that part," Dean replied, voice dry and hard. He hadn't removed his attention from the female.

"Castiel," the female said, an announcement rather than a question. It was enough to reveal the angel's identity.

"Rachel." Castiel stepped closer and raised his hand to Dean in a soothing gesture.

Dean did not look soothed. He did however, step back, closer to the fencing that made up the outer wall. He also moved his hand to his belt where Castiel knew he kept a short blade. In case, he needed to draw a banishing sigil, Castiel supposed.

"Why are you here, Rachel?" he asked his former compatriot. "Have you come to collect what is left of me?"

"I have received no orders regarding your dispensation," she replied in that flat way the angels had when they had not been overly exposed to humans. Castiel could remember speaking like that. Dean probably thought he still did, but he knew the difference.

"Then why?"

"We need guidance," she stated calmly. Always calm. Removed from the world of humans.

"I can give you none." He was aware of Dean looking at him in concern. He raised his chin to say he was… functional.

"There is no one else so deeply involved in the late crisis," she argued. "You are the logical choice."

"Michael?"

"Pursuing the liberation of Lucifer."

That hadn't taken the archangel long, Castiel thought. "Raphael then."

"He is at Michael's side."

Castiel absorbed the information. It was possible that two archangels could achieve what one could not. Still unlikely, though.

He ran through the Garrison's hierarchy, thinking of and discarding many of its members. The battle for the Seals, combined with Uriel's betrayal, had thinned their numbers considerably. Many of the higher ranks were either dead, or they were healers and shepherds, not leaders.

"What do you want of me?" he demanded, hoping for a straightforward answer.

Rachel blinked as if he should have known. He would have, once; when he'd still been an angel and part of the Garrison. She gave Dean a wary glance before returning her gaze to Castiel and staring intently.

"You have to tell me, Rachel. I am no longer part of the Chorus."

That made the female angel rock back on her heels. It could have been amusing, but wasn't.

"We have learned," she paused and Castiel watched her arrange her thoughts. "When Zachariah arranged for the Winchesters to be in place for Lucifer and Michael, you rebelled. You assisted Dean Winchester's escape and took him to the Prophet. Yet, when Raphael appeared, there was only you and the Prophet." Again she paused, but this time Castiel thought it might be a result of disbelief. "Raphael… rendered your vessel and dispersed you. Yet here you are." She half-lifted a hand to gesture to him. Off to the side, Dean stiffened in warning, but her hand settled without threat. "God brought you back, and that means He Chose you, Castiel—chose you to lead us."

"I am no longer an angel." The statement was not becoming easier to say the more he said it.

"We are aware of that. However, my previous points remain," Rachel replied calmly. "What does God want?"

"If you believe He means you to follow me, then perhaps God wants you to have freedom." Which was what Castiel now had—freedom from the archangels, from the Apocalypse, from the never-ending duty imposed by the Father—but he had it only because he had nothing left to lose.

The seeping void that was where his Grace used to reside exploded inside him, filling him with blankness, a vast and powerful blankness. There was nothing: no light, no dark, no sound, no Father, no Brethren to give him guidance and support.

Rachel was speaking so Castiel dragged his attention back to her words.

"—what does he want us to do with it?"

Black, cold, alone. Without rudder or hope…

"He wants you to hang yourself with it." And he turned away from her and all she represented, all he'd once been. He heard Dean call his name, but he ignored it and climbed back onto the deck with its musty chairs, and then into the kitchen with its warmth and simplicity.

"I didn't want to be human," Castiel announced to his hostess. "I expected to die, I would have preferred it, but that's not what happened. Now I am forced live as a human and I do not know how."

.o0o.

Lisa stood in the middle of the kitchen and saw a blur. The nice relaxing day she'd planned had gone all cock-eyed. Exploded into disaster, actually.

After Castiel's pronouncement, the oddly-new human had swayed on his feet. Dean had come inside in time to catch him before he fell—this time just to the floor—and then they were gone. Dean was tucking his friend into bed, getting him cool clothes for his forehead. Hell, he might be giving Castiel a foot-massage for all she knew. She'd been left in the kitchen, alone.

She didn't know what to do.

She had two extremely wounded men living out of her living room. An angry, self-hating hero and a fallen angel… What in god's name was she supposed to do?

She snorted at the phrase. From what they'd told her, Castiel's god had had little to do with any of it. He certainly wasn't around to help pick up the pieces. There was just her.

What if she wasn't enough?

She snorted again, barely catching it before it turned into a sob, because she already knew she wasn't going to be enough. Anything short of Sam knocking on the door wasn't going to be enough for Dean, and anything less than a return to being a fully functional angel wasn't going to be enough for Castiel.

She was supremely out of her weight class.

"Lisa." Dean called her name and made her jump.

She turned to face him, hand at her chest to control her heart rate. "Is he…" She stopped because there was no way Castiel was okay so why was she asking?

"He's sleeping."

"Good, yeah," she said feeling awkward and useless. "I imagine he's under a lot of strain."

Dean chuckled but the sound was without joy. He opened his mouth but she waved away any comment. "That was a ridiculous understatement. You don't need to say it."

This time, when his mouth quirked, there was at least _some_ humor in it. "Never crossed my mind, I swear." And then he actually smiled and Lisa remembered why she'd invited him into her life two years ago, and nine years before that, and why he was back in it right now.

He was a good man.

"You were going to take off and… do something," she reminded him.

"Yeah, well…" He looked away sheepishly. "Maybe we should go finish turning the dirt since we seem to be the only two left standing."

"We could do that." The peace of a sunny afternoon doing honest, simple, work sounded perfect actually. She refilled the water bottles as Dean waited at the door for her. When she turned away from the fridge he was looking at her intently.

"I'm sorry I was a bit of an ass," he said. She frowned not understanding the comment. "When we were talking about god and the _things_ that are out there."

The light went on in Lisa's mind. "Oh, _that_. You weren't being an ass. I mean… I'm not especially attached to the Christian religion—much to my mother's dismay." She tried a smile but Dean's face remained serious. "I wasn't upset at the substance of what you were saying—after what you've been through, you have a right to be angry. I just… I don't like people to swear in front of Ben."

This time it was Dean who blinked in non-comprehension.

Lisa felt her cheeks grow warm. To cover her embarrassment, she led the way outside. "I know, I know. He hears worse at school and on TV and everywhere, but my dad always said there was a difference between street language and social language, and it was important to know the difference, and I…" A shrug. "I agree with him."

"You were close to your dad?" Dean asked, picking up the abandoned spade.

It wasn't what Lisa was expecting him to say, and it threw her for a moment.

Had she been close to her father? They'd gotten along well enough. He'd supported her when she'd decided to keep Ben over her mother's outrage at having a pregnant and unwed daughter, but she couldn't say they'd been close. She wasn't sure if her father had been close to anyone. But he _had _been something else she could use…

"My father's parents were alcoholics," Lisa said, carefully keeping her gaze on the dirt. "My aunt Carline said Granddad used to beat them all. Then he'd tell them that it was normal, that he was just 'expressing his frustration'. My Uncle Tony went along with it—embraced the lifestyle, you might say. Aunt Carline told me Uncle Tony used to bully her and Dad when they were all kids. Then, when he grew up, he beat his girlfriends and his wives. Tony's been in jail twice and he still hasn't learned. His last girlfriend shot him with his own gun. It paralyzed him, but at least he doesn't hit anyone anymore. Dad could've turned out like that."

She carefully filled the hole with watered-down fertilizer, ignoring Dean's puzzled gaze. "Despite his upbringing, Dad never raised a hand to any of us. He refused to be like his father or his brother. He became a cop to help protect those who needed it—though by the end, he'd downgraded that to those who wanted it. He never shouted at home and he didn't curse casually. That way, when he _did_ swear, we knew it was serious."

Dean was smiling, just a gentle curve of the lips. "He sounds like an admirable man."

Lisa smiled back then deliberately looked away. "Yeah, he was, but he was also very hard to get to know. He never talked about his childhood, the things he'd survived, but that's often the way with someone who's been abused or gone through something traumatic. They don't know how to talk about it; don't know how to make themselves vulnerable like that. They feel ashamed that they let it happen in the first place. Guilty, somehow."

She put the little seedling in the hole and buried the roots softly, still not looking at the former—almost former—hunter.

"I wish I'd gotten to know him better," she forced into the silence. "But I always knew the effort would have to start with him. All I could do was wait, and let him know I'd listen whenever he was ready to talk."

There was bird song and the soft burr of distant traffic.

Then Dean laughed, not full or hearty, but real. "That was as subtle as being hit by a brick," he mocked, gently.

Lisa's cheeks heated. She kept her eyes down. "I never said I was subtle. And some people need a good brick-hitting."

"No argument there." His voice was warm with amusement so she risked looking up at him. He was smiling down at her, looking right at her with warmth and charm, just like the man she remembered from before.

_Jesus,_ he was good looking!

Then he colored, and looked away. "Huh, um… You're a good person, and, uh, your dad would've been proud," he coughed out. "And, um, you're doing a good job with Ben. He's, y'know, a good kid." Dean took a step sideways and focused everything on digging the tip of the spade in the exact depth.

He looked so uncomfortable, like the smallest word would set him running like a frightened rabbit. It was cute.

She took pity on the poor guy and went back to work. And if a while later she mumbled a soft "thanks" into the empty air, neither of them bothered to ask why.

.o0o.

Dean had never realized that gardening was so much work.

Digging was always a slow job, but he only had to go down a half-foot or so, and through fairly loose soil. Compared to digging down six feet or more to get to an old grave, it had been chicken-feed.

No, it wasn't the digging that made it work. It was the stuff that came after: sifting through the dirt to take out the rocks and the chunks; digging out the itty-bitty holes for the baby plants, _prepping_ the holes with fertilizer and even little stones, putting in the plant then covering it up just enough—not too much and not too little. The things were like botanical Goldilocks with how picky they were.

He would've complained a lot more except for two things: Lisa didn't know him that well yet, and would maybe take it seriously, and… it had been kind of relaxing. Just like earlier, when it had been the four of them working as a team, smooth and easy. Nothing depended on him getting it perfect, and nobody was going to die if he dug a little too deep once or twice.

He didn't even mind the stupid birds twerping.

He finished turning the earth way before Lisa had finished with the little plants, so he went back to help her. Kneeling on the grass, hands buried in the dirt, he was overwhelmed with the memories of too many graves, too many dead. When Lisa handed him the fertilizer that smelled like liquefied corpse, it was too much. He stepped into the kitchen to refill their water bottles and to pull himself together.

He was not a basket case.

He checked in on Cas before going back outside to finish the job he'd started.

Lisa didn't offer him the fertilizer again.

Now it was done: a thin, greenish line along the fence that, with time and patience, may or may not turn into something more.

And people thought Dean never got symbolism.

A quick shower to wipe away more than dirt. He pulled on yesterday's jeans and a clean T-shirt before leaving the bathroom for the living room. He stood by the couch, staring down at his friend, his ally. Asleep, Cas looked more like his human vessel than at any other time, which just showed how much impact his personality had on the body. Dean could remember certain things, specific images, from when he'd first met Castiel, and even fogged by distance, events, and the alcohol he'd consumed in great quantities, Dean was aware of how much more expressive Cas had become since he'd chosen to join them.

Did Cas think helping them had been worth it?

Would Dean ever have the guts to ask?

He snorted silently. Might as well stab himself with a sharpened fork as open up that wound.

He leaned down and shook the angel's shoulder. "Cas. Hey, man. Wake up," he said. "It's nearly supper time."

Cas opened his eyes so quickly that Dean suspected he hadn't been sleeping at all, just lying there brooding.

Given past experience with… with Sam, Dean could expect something monumentally stupid to come out of Cas' mouth now. And the longer Cas stared at him, the stupider it would be.

Cas stared. Dean waited.

One blink.

"I wish to see Claire."

And there was the stupid.

.o0o.

"So what's the big deal?" Ben asked around a mouthful of hamburger.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Lisa chided absently.

"The big deal is that Claire is _Jimmy's_ daughter," Dean answered, voice tight with frustration. How come he was the only one who got it?

"She was also my vessel." Castiel replied. He was already on his second burger.

"Once," Dean argued, "for a couple weeks, after they turned you back into Robo-angel."

"She has the right to know,"

Dean glared at him. "Know what? That her dad's not coming back? She knows that already."

"That her father's sacrifice meant something."

"Who cares what it meant when what it comes down to is that her family's fu– effed up and her dad's gone?"

"Because I know what she was hoping for when she agreed to be my vessel," was Castiel's calm reply and damn if that didn't annoy Dean more. He'd had it up to his eyeballs with people sacrificing themselves to some 'greater good', starting with his own father and moving on up the line of useless, pointless…

An image of Ellen and Jo in that stupid hardware store in Carthage popped into his head and his stomach heaved.

He pushed away from his plate.

"It might be good, for Cas," Lisa clarified when Dean glared at her. "But maybe for… for his vessel's family too. Closure, you know."

He wanted to sneer and point out that closure didn't exist in the real world. Things just kept tearing your guts out over and over again. "Well, if it's good for Cas…" he sneered instead.

"Don't be an asshole, Dean."

"Mom!" Ben tried for outrage but ended up awed snickering. "You're not allowed to swear."

"I wasn't swearing, I was counselling," she responded loftily, "Using colorful language for its shock value."

"'Cause you think Dean's got his head in his butt?" the kid snickered.

"You should treat your elders with more respect," Castiel interjected.

"That's hardly fair," Ben protested. "You're, like, as old as god so we'd never get to make fun of you."

Castiel frowned and tipped his head. "You say that as if it is a bad thing," he said in honest confusion.

Suddenly, Dean could see how ridiculous this was: arguing with a former angel about how a little girl might or might not react to seeing him in her father's body. Worrying that the kid would be traumatized. She'd hosted a freaking _angel_—the _same_ freaking angel. And her mom had been possessed by a demon. If the kid was going to lose her marbles over the weird stuff, it would've happened a long time ago.

"Fine," he threw up his hands. "If we can find her, I'll take you to see her."

Castiel smiled beatifically. "Thank you, Dean."

"Now you won't have to put a horse's head on his pillow," Ben remarked and set the conversation going in a whole new, equally bizarre, direction as the comment needed to be explained to Cas—_after_ Ben explained where and when he'd seen _The Godfather_ to his mother.

It didn't make Dean's bitterness magically disappear, but he was able to put it aside and remember that Sam had wanted this for him.

"It might be a good idea to give, um… Jimmy's wife?" Lisa looked at Cas first then at Dean for the name.

"Amelia," Cas provided.

Lisa nodded. "It might be a good idea to give Amelia a call first, just to make sure that it won't actually be _harmful_ to Claire."

"Why would it be?"

"'Cause you look like her dead father?" Dean suggested dryly.

"She hosted me for nearly a week. She witnessed her possessed mother trying to kill her, Jimmy, and both you and Sam," Cas argued in eerie echo to what Dean had told himself just moments before.

"Nonetheless," Lisa said firmly. "You will phone Claire's mother, and give her some warning. I've never been possessed, either by angels or demons, but I remember how shaky we were after the changelings… After that."

It was probably worse to be possessed than to merely look–

The thought broke away when Dean realized that Lisa and Ben could be possessed.

Although, of _course_ they could be possessed—they were just regular people, unconcerned with the existence of angels or demons and all their crap plans. Except now they weren't. Now they had him and Cas living with them, and that made them targets.

"Tattoos," he said, breaking into whatever anybody else was talking about. "You and Ben need to get tattoos."

"Coool," Ben breathed even as Lisa stared at him in disapproval.

"I am not letting my eleven-year old son–"

Dean talked over her protest. "Protective tattoos," he explained. "So that neither of you can be possessed." He pulled down his shirt to show them.

"Way cool!" Ben grinned.

"Cas, you should get one, too."

"I do not require one," he replied. "There are enough lingering effects that this body should be impenetrable for a demon."

Dean was already shaking his head. "That isn't good enough," he said. "Unless the needles break on your skin, you need one of these too."

"Dean," Lisa protested.

"You want us to call Jimmy's wife to be nice. Fine. We'll do that. I want you to get a tattoo to be safe."

Lisa stared at him, stared with all the force of her 'mother powers' but Dean met her look and didn't back down. This was too damn important. He'd already lived through Sam being turned into a murderous asshole by Meg, he didn't need to experience the same sort of thing with the people at the table with him.

"I am sure neither of those actions are necessary," Cas said casually breaking the tension as he chased peas across his plate. "However, I have no true objection."

Dean glared at Lisa. "There you go."

Lisa glowered at Dean. "Fine."

"It's for your own good."

"I _said_ 'okay'."

"Okay then."

"Good."

Ben giggled. "You sound like Jenny MacDonald and Billy Gray talking about their project," he said and shut them both up.

.o0o.

The house was dim. Only the TV and the safety-light for Ben's stairs were on. Well, there was her tiny string of pretty rose lights by the bookshelf but they didn't count as _lights_. They were just there to be… pretty and cheerful. Two concepts she needed a lot of right now.

Both Ben and Castiel were down for the night, Castiel in her room so that she and Dean could watch the movie. It was a stupid thing featuring squealing cars, music with lots of bass, and bunches of good-looking young people doing improbable stuff with explosions. The content really didn't matter. What mattered was that it required no thought and no effort to watch, and it was loud enough that conversation wasn't needed either.

Tea, blanket, sore muscles soothed with a hot bath, and a blank mind—it took so little to make her happy.

"Popcorn?" Dean asked, lifting the bowl.

"No thanks," she answered as the hero's car nearly (but not quite) hit the truck going the other way. At least the stunt drivers had had fun. Maybe.

Stupid and relaxing. It's all she could ask for right now.

"Mom?" asked a small voice and wiped relaxing off the board.

She turned to see her son staring at her with huge eyes. "Hey, Ben. What is it?" He said nothing verbally, but he squirmed and looked away. She recognized that embarrassment. "Had a bad dream?"

He nodded wordlessly, so she scooched over on the couch and lifted her blanket. Ben scurried over and, with one self-conscious glance at Dean, fitted himself into her side.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head.

"Just want some company, huh," she said with a smile, knowing what that felt like. Ben nodded silently and snuggled in even closer.

"Okay," she agreed softly. "You let me know if you change your mind." Then she shifted her arm so that she could pet his hair and went back to watching the mindless action on the TV. She wished her nightmares could be soothed away so easily.

.o0o.

Castiel saw Ben scurry to the couch from the arched opening between the kitchen and the living room. He wasn't sure why he'd awoken but his heart had been racing and he'd been unable to draw a full breath. He had wanted to talk to Dean about it, but his friend seemed comfortable on the sofa. More relaxed than he'd been since…

No, actually. It had been longer because resignation was not the same as relaxation.

The boy had appeared from out of the darkness, upset and in need of comfort. It was only right that he should be accepted onto the couch to be held close to his mother.

Castiel didn't mourn the lost opportunity. The sight of Ben slipping back to sleep under Lisa's soothing ministrations had brought some of Jimmy's memories to the fore. Nights where Claire had appeared by Jimmy's bedside, weepy and frightened. She had been accepted in, under the covers, in just the same way.

Claire had always smelled faintly of strawberry jam. Her shampoo, Castiel realized. As he walked back to the room that he shared with Dean, he wondered if it was still possible to buy strawberry shampoo, and if it would smell the same on him as it had on Jimmy's daughter?


	4. Exile on Main Street

During the passing week Castiel tried to wait patiently as Dean searched for Jimmy's family, but nearly every moment of it was a reminder of what he'd lost. When he'd been an angel, if he wanted to find someone, he merely filtered through all of humanity's voices until he located the echo of their soul and could follow it back to the person.

A moment's thought, a second's effort, and the task was done.

Now that he was… what he now was, he was forced to watch as Dean searched on the computer and by phone for any trace of the woman who'd been his vessel's wife.

It helped that there were still many interesting things for him to learn about being human. He learned primitive spells such as 'Cross My Heart' and 'Touch Wood', as well as how to beat Dean at ritualized battle in 'Rock-Paper-Scissors' . He learned that a tattoo needle could indeed pierce his skin, and he learned to be grateful Dean only required the one design. It wasn't as extensive an injury as when he'd woken up after activating the banishment sigil he'd carved into his chest during the showdown in Van Neys, but it itched alarmingly. At night, he watched _WWE_ and _UFC _with Ben, and wondered if Lucifer hadn't been correct about the human race after all.

Watching TV with the boy had allowed more memories of Jimmy's family to come forward. Jimmy and Amelia had sat in large, darkened rooms ignoring the projected images in favor of mild intimacy. He'd watched puppets singing about numbers and letters with Claire, or rather Jimmy had. The whole family had watched movies about lost pets making their way home, and Jimmy had cried with his daughter over their fate.

He asked Ben, who had been quite friendly during the past week, what those shows were, and the boy showed him 'Sesame Street' and 'Homeward Bound'. No further memories had emerged, but Ben cried for the lost pets nearly as much as Jimmy had.

Ben actually proved to be a much better resource on human behavior than either of the Winchesters—perhaps due to their isolation from regular society.

After nearly two mortal years with the Winchesters, their lifestyle had seemed normal enough, but as more of Jimmy's memories surfaced, Castiel realized that, even subtracting the supernatural elements, it was not common for two adult siblings to spend their days 'on the road'. Although he was under the impression it would have been more acceptable if they had been using motorcycles as their mode of transport—a completely illogical circumstance that even Ben could not explain.

He learned that, with the exception of hamburgers which he enjoyed no matter their origin, food prepared at home was generally tastier than the food that he had experienced while travelling with Dean.

He also learned to limit his alcohol consumption to two bottles of beer per night. His tolerance for the beverage was now essentially non-existent and he had no desire to repeat the pain he'd experienced the next day.

It was not that he regretted using his Grace to push Lucifer into the cage—_WWE_ aside, the alternative was truly too horrible to contemplate—but that the lack of his Grace was a paralyzing void inside him and he had nothing with which to fill it, Not Faith nor Hope nor Charity. Not even Dean's stubborn refusal to give up touched it. He lived because the body he inhabited breathed. He ate because Dean and his friend Lisa expected it. He slept because it was unavoidable. He bathed because it, too, was necessary for the health of the body. He didn't mind the showers. The sensation of warm water running over his skin was unexpectedly pleasant and lent itself well to masturbation.

There was, however, no point to his existence. He had no duties, no purpose. Living until he died seemed the best he could hope for.

"Cas!"

Dean's voice jerked him out of the state of peaceful acceptance he had achieved. From the way Dean was frowning at him it wasn't the first time his name had been called.

"I'm sorry. You needed me?" Even as he spoke the words he was aware of the irony of them. He had nothing to offer now, so the idea that the human would 'need' him was ludicrous.

"Yeah. Bobby needs a photograph," Dean replied looking down at the device in his hand.

"Of me?"

Dean looked up and rolled his eyes. "No. Of Luke Skywalker. Of course of you. He's got a guy who'll create us solid IDs. Ones we can use like real citizens."

Castiel allowed himself to be dragged until he stood in front of a bare wall in the dining room. "And this is a good thing?"

"If we're not going to be hunters anymore, yeah." Dean didn't look up from his device—a camera, Castiel identified—when he responded and he knew it was because Dean was still ambivalent about Sam's request that he attempt living "an apple pie life". Mostly because Dean didn't know what that was. Neither did Castiel.

One more thing for which he was not needed.

He allowed Dean to straighten his shirt and smooth down his hair. He even allowed Dean to lift his chin to inspect its tidiness.

"Yeah, you look respectable enough," the former hunter muttered. "Or as good as I can make you."

"I could put on a suit and tie, if you prefer."

Dean stared at him. "I want you to look normal, not like a schmuck."

Castiel said nothing more, but secretly he missed Jimmy's old suit and his overcoat. They were familiar and comfortable.

Dean took a couple pictures, perhaps more. The flash was incredibly bright and Castiel blinked to clear the spots from his vision. He rubbed his eyes although, as with most human gestures, it didn't improve anything.

Dean nodded at the small screen on the camera. "Those'll do. Don't look any worse than real ID photos."

Having by now seen many drivers' license photos and other identifying cards, Castiel didn't doubt that Dean's quick pictures wouldn't be any worse.

"I'll get these over to Bobby and in a couple weeks, we should be legal." Dean grinned at him. "That means you're making supper."

That snapped Castiel out of his daze. "I'm making supper?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Sure. I showed you how to follow a recipe. And you've been sous-chef a couple times. You're good to go, man."

"I am not familiar with any recipes," Castiel remonstrated.

Dean shrugged again as he moved towards the living room. "Lisa has lots of books."

Castiel followed. "I do not know where Lisa keeps them.

Dean waved his hand at some recessed book shelves Castiel had seen but ignored. "The books are right here," he said. "Pasta's probably easiest to start with," he went on, pulling out a slim volume and handing it over. "And Lisa's got just about everything. Ben said he'd help you find stuff, but he's got some report due tomorrow so he's gotta get that finished."

Castiel examined Dean's words: verbose but lacking in substance. What Dean had said wasn't the totality of his meaning. "You wish me to cook."

Dean wouldn't look at him. "I'll be doing this thing for Bobby."

"You wish me to cook," Castiel repeated, knowing it was often the only way to force Dean to say what he really meant.

The former hunter shifted his weight in discomfort then stilled. He took a breath and looked up and into Castiel's eyes. "I think you should cook because I think you'll be good at it, and eating is about the only thing about being human that you enjoy."

"I enjoy orgasms, as well," Castiel muttered even as he considered Dean's idea. It was a compliment in a way, but it wasn't without barbs. Still, it was a request for a service that he could probably provide. "But you are correct: I do enjoy eating so I will give it a try. You suggest I start with pasta?"

"Yeah," Dean said with relief. "Maybe Alfredo sauce—the creamy one—you like that."

Castiel nodded. Dean nodded back once, quick and sharp and self-conscious. Castiel wondered why Dean was embarrassed by his request—humans usually had preferences about everything. It was nothing of which to be ashamed. He was about to ask when Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm gonna go send these pictures to Bobby. He said it'll take a week to get the IDs back." He turned to enter the living room where the laptop resided then turned back. "Jimmy's family… They're not in Saginaw."

"Jimmy told Amelia to go to Carl and Sally—her brother and his wife."

"Yeah, I got that," Dean says and his voice is apologetic. "I found _them_ but there's no Amelia or Claire living with them, or near them. There's no autopsy reports either, which means we can assume they haven't died, so that's good. Right?"

Was it?

"I will see if another search of Jimmy's memories elicits further possibilities. You said Alfredo sauce?" He asked—mostly to keep Dean from offering reasons why searching for Jimmy's family was a 'bad idea'.

"Yeah," the hunter said, obviously swallowing what he would have preferred to say. "And linguini."

Castiel nodded one final time before turning away. As he searched through the cupboards for the ingredients and tools he needed, it occurred to him that this was something he could contribute to the household, something he could do every day—a purpose.

He couldn't work. Not even Bobby's nearly perfect IDs would give him the social and technological skills required to perform in even the simplest of human careers. Researching a method to free Sam while leaving Lucifer in the pit required no social skills, but an understanding of the world's internet web was essential, which he did not have, and since he did not agree with Dean's plan, he had no incentive to learn.

Cooking, however… Cooking he could do. The couple of times Dean had prepared something (often pasta and sauce) both Lisa and Ben had seemed appreciative of the effort. It was a small thing, but Dean had been right. He did like to eat food that tasted good.

Dean had been right…

He froze, water pot held a hand's width above the stove.

Was it possible that Dean had been _worried_ about him?

"Hey, Cas. What you doing in the kitchen?" Ben asked and jerked him out of his reverie. The ability to be 'snuck up upon' by humans was another thing to which he had to adjust. His sense of taste and touch had sharpened in his human body, but his hearing and his vision were infinitely duller.

"I am preparing supper."

"Yeah?" Ben said with a smile. "Well I gotta tell ya, food cooks better when it's on a heat source, y'know." He picked up the recipe book. "Alfredo sauce. Yum!" Then he peeled off his backpack and began to read the ingredients. Castiel asked him where he would find them and the boy pointed at the correct storage area.

As always, it was pleasant to have Ben's company. The boy chattered about what he'd learned and conversations he'd had that day. It reminded Castiel of time Jimmy had spent with Claire. Although if the memory was accurate, crayons had been involved and some rather improbable acrobatics by a horse.

Ben's presence was also helpful. Aside from directing Castiel to the proper cupboards, he volunteered to stir the sauce. All while maintaining a running commentary on what had transpired today at his school. "So then we learned about how the Civil War was about freeing the slaves."

"That is not wholly correct," Castiel interjected.

"Sure it is," the boy argued. "They signed the mani-mancipitation act and everything."

"The _Emancipation Proclamation_ came later," he corrected. "It was, indeed, a noble thing. However, it was not simple nobility or righteous anger that began the American Civil War. It was, as many things are, about control."

Ben stared at him, and Castiel took it to mean that he had not explained well. "It was fought to establish if the regulations of new states would be standardized with those of the federal government, or if each state would be mostly autonomous. If they were to be autonomous, then each state would retain a larger portion of the revenues it collected, rather than having to remit the money to the central government. "

"But it's what's in the textbook," Ben said confused. "We fought the war to free the slaves."

"Freeing the slaves was a result," Cas repeated. "Not the purpose."

"Cas!" admonished a familiar voice. "Are you saying history _lies_?" Dean was leaning against the entryway and he was almost smiling, so Castiel knew that the protest was mocking and not to be taken seriously.

Still… It was best not to leave the boy with a false impression.

"As a race, humans are not omniscient—they do not know everything," the former angel clarified when Ben frowned at him. He continued measuring as he spoke.

"Those you consider experts often did not participate directly in the events they wrote about. Historians did, and often still do, rely on second or third-hand accounts, so errors and omissions are inevitable. Also to be considered is that those who were present would have pre-formed opinions about the people and events they were witnessing. Both these circumstances foster inaccuracies and biases, which are reflected in the written chronicles."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, that's not something Ben can tell his fourth grade teacher if he's asked 'what was the main cause of the Civil War'," Dean pointed out. The hunter had wandered over to inspect the food preparation. He attempted to put his finger in the sauce. Ben hit it with the spoon, and Dean retreated. Ben shook his finger at Dean. Then Dean stuck his tongue out at the boy. It made Ben giggle.

Castiel observed their interaction without paying much attention. Instead, he considered Dean's remarks.

For Ben to state to his teacher that the instruction he was receiving was limited and biased would, perhaps, be ill-advised, but he had no personal knowledge of the events the boy described. He had not been stationed in the Americas at the time of which Ben spoke. Uriel had been, and he had lectured—ranted, actually—at length about the event. It was, perhaps, the beginning of his brother's disenchantment with Heaven and Michael's rule. Or maybe that had started much earlier—the various crusades had been contentious for the Garrison, with some angels being called upon by both sides and no direction from Father as to which side to favor.

Castiel shook himself out of the memory.

"The most direct cause of America's civil war was the election of Abraham Lincoln," he announced, breaking into whatever Dean and Ben were discussing. "None of the representatives of the southern states voted for him. As a result, they believed they would not receive fair or representative decisions from the federal government."

"What was wrong with that?" Ben asked. "Lots of people get elected that Mom didn't vote for, and _she_ doesn't go out and start some war over it."

Castiel chopped vegetables for the salad as he explained. "It was just before major expansion into the western part of the continent. The leaders knew it was large, and they knew it had vast natural resources," he said. "If the American states had split into two nations, it would have been a race to see who could settle the most land first, and then it would have been a fight to see who would continue to control the resources. It is also possible that other areas could have better resisted American expansion if it had broken up into two, or even three, nations."

Ben squinted as he tried to absorb this idea. Obviously, he had a difficult time understanding hypotheticals because he asked, "What do you mean?"

"Texas was taken from Mexico back before the Civil War, and it wasn't happy about it," Dean replied as he took plates from the cupboard. He sounded surprised that he was contributing to the discussion. Then he looked sad, and Castiel assumed the information had been imparted by Sam.

"Seriously?" Ben asked.

Castiel nodded agreement. "They might have taken advantage of the war to once again separate, or Mexico might have retaken it," he said. "California might have remained in Spanish hands.

"Brits could've come down from Canada again, taken the Midwest," Dean suggested. "Or the Russians could've stayed in Alaska, or expanded down the west coast."

"Would we still be Americans?" Ben asked, frowning and the discussion moved to the area of alternate realities, and the number of dimensions needed for the Simplified Theory of Relativity to work ("that's _simple_?"), and thence to a comparison of the physics of _Star Trek_ with those of _Star Wars_. It was all quite interesting.

"What's going on?" Lisa Braeden's voice interrupted and Castiel was surprised to discover so much time had passed since Ben had come home.

"Cas is making supper, Mom!" Ben shouted excitedly. "And I'm helping." He looked at Castiel and his brown eyes were large and happy. Happy at being with _him_.

A ball of… emotion grew in Castiel's chest. It was choking. "He has been most helpful," he managed to say.

Lisa smiled, running an absent-minded hand through her son's hair. "Well, I have to say, it smells delicious, but did you do your homework?"

Ben shifted on his feet and ducked his head—a sure sign of guilt. "I didn't get anything _written_," he said. "But Cas was telling me all about how the U.S. could've broken up and what it would've been like if it had. Did you know that alternate futures are possible?" The boy bounced a little in his excitement. "Maybe I could've been a superhero!"

Lisa smiled at her son in a bemused way and Castiel felt obligated to correct some of the boy's assumptions.

"There are still rules," he said.

"Aren't there always," Dean muttered from the table as he put down the salad. Castiel ignored him.

"You mean you couldn't just go back and stop America from importing slaves in the first place?"

Castiel shook his head. "Any alternate future would have to develop organically, from a countless number of decisions and actions that, over time, create something unrecognizable. Otherwise, it would be unstable."

"What if you hadn't been there to push Lucifer into his cage?" Ben asked the question innocently—a child's boundless and boundary-less curiosity. It made the adults pause in uncomfortable stillness.

"Then it would have happened a different way," the angel answered gently. "Dean would not let his brother's sacrifice be in vain."

After another moment's silence, Dean snorted unhappily. "You're about as subtle as Lisa."

Lisa looked at Castiel in sympathy. "He means not very."

Castiel nodded his head in acceptance, and poured the noodles into the perforated bowl so they could drain. "Supper will be on the table momentarily," he announced. "You should all wash your hands in preparation for consumption."

He wasn't sure why Ben giggled, but he enjoyed the sound. Lisa's smile said she did too.

.o0o.

The talk around the dinner table was apparently a continuation of what the boys had been discussing before. They moved on to discussing the possibility of alien life: Castiel wouldn't confirm the existence of aliens, but allowed that they could exist; Dean said no; Ben wanted them to; and Lisa didn't care as long as they didn't come down and fry the world.

Although, she wouldn't object if they zapped the college's president into an alternate dimension.

They were busy, their enrollment was high, but President Forester wanted to "upgrade". He wanted them to become another Purdue University, instead of what they were now: a place where people could upgrade their high school. Or just finish high school, really. They taught ESL courses, and courses on becoming a legal secretary or a medical receptionist. They taught courses on how to unplug toilets and maintain projection systems, for god's sake!

He wanted "qualified instructors" meaning people with bachelor degrees if not masters. It meant that it wouldn't be enough for Lisa to know how to teach her programs, she'd need a piece of paper to prove it. In fact, Forester was talking about requiring dual bachelor's degrees in sports medicine and education for anything in her department, but she couldn't afford to go back to school for _one_ degree, let alone two. She'd lost a lot of money off-loading the house in Cicero after the thing with the changelings—too many of the other parents had had the same idea—plus the stock market crash had wiped out her savings, which admittedly, hadn't been great, but it had felt nice knowing it was there.

None of which she was going to mention to either Castiel or Dean because it felt kind of petty to be worried about a job when one of them was dealing with no longer being an angel and the other was worried about his brother in Hell. What did Bogart say to Elsa in Casablanca? "Our problems don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world?"

So Lisa tried to put it aside. She let herself enjoy eating a meal she hadn't cooked and that hadn't been ordered over the phone.

It wasn't bad. The sauce was a little lumpy and over-salted, but it wasn't burnt and Castiel hadn't added anything weird. Her last boyfriend had added flax or quinoa to everything, even brownies. She liked to be healthy, but that had been ridiculous.

Dean broke the flow of innocuous talk by announcing that he needed to take off for a couple days. "I've got a lead to follow."

"On the Novaks?" Castiel asked though they all knew it wasn't.

"Bobby knows a guy who knows a guy who has a book," Dean said. "He doesn't copy it or loan it apparently. Says he needs to 'vet' anybody who wants to read it."

"What is the name of the book?" Castiel asked suspicion obvious in his tone.

"It's a book," Dean said as if it was no big deal but Lisa noticed he didn't look at his friend.

Dean fidgeted like Ben did when caught doing something not _wrong_ exactly. It would have been endearing if it wasn't scary as hell.

"Dean." The angel's voice was a threatening rumble.

"It's a grimoire," Dean answered reluctantly.

Lisa knew a grimoire was an ancient book of magic, which usually meant some wannabe's scribbled notes or, more often, the Kabbalistic version of astrology, but Castiel's reaction didn't match up to this grimoire being the equivalent of reading Tarot cards. Castiel put his fork down with a snap sharp enough to make Lisa jump, and glared at Dean hard enough to bore holes in concrete.

"Which one?" he demanded, voice dropping a register.

Lisa shifted her gaze to Dean who had his jaw clenched mulishly.

Castiel growled. Literally. Growled.

"The _Francesco Notes_, okay?" Dean spat. "Matteuccia de Francesco's original notes."

"You cannot! Those are an abomination." Dean hunched forward defensively. He opened his mouth to argue but Castiel wasn't finished. "They have ensnared and condemned more people than any other demonic text in existance. We have… had… There were standing orders to the angels that any copy we discovered was to be destroyed immediately and the owner was to be cleansed."

"Cleansed?" Lisa asked.

"Their memories of the contents were to be removed from their mind," Castiel said.

"Ew," Lisa said, because that sounded really invasive and offensive.

"They were not hurt," Castiel assured her, but Dean snorted and she wasn't reassured.

"I'm not going to perform any of the rituals," Dean said. "I'm just going to read this one section."

Castiel sighed. "The mere act of reading it can leave a stain on the soul. Do you really want to risk going back to Hell?"

"Can you tell me what it said," Dean fired back.

"Of course not!"

"Then pardon me for wanting to find out for myself what the big bad book contains."

"You do not trust me to know what is unsafe?"

"I don't trust your dick brothers not to condemn something because they didn't like the writer."

Lisa watched the two men at her kitchen table spit words at each other. The force of their confrontation was a growing weight pressing on her, making it impossible to breathe. Ben's eyes were wide and scared.

They weren't going to back down, she knew because they were each of them protecting someone they held dear.

Protections…

"Isn't he protected?" she said, breaking the stand-off (thank the infinite deities). "Dean's ribs, the tattoo? Won't that keep him safe?"

"Those will not protect him against this," Castiel replied.

"What can?" she asked. The stares changed from angry to considering, and Lisa finally managed a full breath.

"There has to be a way…" Dean said. It was an olive branch.

Lisa knew the moment Castiel thought of lying. She was pretty sure Dean recognized it too. Then he decided _not_ to lie and that was easy to recognize: he sighed and his shoulders slumped in resignation.

"There are, perhaps, a couple sigils you could use," the angel said and the conversation turned to the use of obscure Enochian or ancient Hebrew in protective designs.

Lisa nearly giggled from sheer relief. That had been _intense_.

If they'd decided to fight, really fight, then there was absolutely nothing she could've done to stop them. She would have _tried_, of course she would have. After all, she'd vowed to herself that she would make this goofy arrangement work for as long as they were here, and she'd meant it, but she could only do so much.

She'd known it wouldn't be easy, but she hadn't known it would be this hard, either. Dean was so _different_ from what she remembered; changed even from two years ago, and no wonder. Castiel was… Castiel was inhuman in so many ways it was scary. Then there were the times he was so human she wanted to wrap him up in cotton balls and cuddle him until it was all better.

They weren't going to stay, she reminded herself.

She'd have to talk to Ben about it because she didn't want her son getting hurt when Dean and Castiel took off. _She _knew that once Dean released his brother (when, not if), he'd be gone and Castiel with him, and that would be the end of their fucked-up impromptu household. It wouldn't pay to get too attached.

She just wished it wasn't too late.

.o0o.

The engine noise was right. The music was good. The road was as it always was. Everything else was wrong.

The car was empty, and even with the radio on, it was too quiet. Too big, too…

Dean ground his teeth in stubborn frustration.

One: he was not going to cry. He'd done enough of that—for Mom, for Dad, for Sammy and Bobby. Ellen and Jo. It was done, finished, and now he needed to get his head back in the game.

Two: he was a fucking idiot.

It wasn't like he hadn't driven the Impala alone before. There were the years Sam had been at Stanford. The week the kid had taken off while Dean hunted that fugly-ass scarecrow, and the week he'd been possessed by Meg. Just this past year, they'd spent a month apart, while Sam had been trying to get his head on straight and Dean had been trying to forgive him for not being his perfect, little Sammy anymore.

Three: This wasn't the beginning of the end. Not even close to being the end of anything. He _would_ find a way to get Sam out of the Pit Lucifer-free.

The headlights fought against the dark, lighting only a small piece of the road ahead, leaving the rest of it hidden and dark, making Dean guess at the dangers that might be just outside the lights. If he turned at the wrong time, he could lose control, run off the road, even die. He wouldn't know whether he'd made the right choice at the right time until after he'd reacted.

Four: his subconscious was even less subtle than Lisa or Castiel, and all three of them could go fuck themselves.

.o0o.

Castiel hadn't realized how noisy the human world was until he lay in the dark, in the bed, alone.

The times he'd travelled in the Impala with Dean and Sam, there had been conversation, Dean's music, the engine, and often other vehicles on the road day or night. Here, at Lisa's, the day was filled with sounds of people, cars, birds, life going on around him. Dean played his music or Lisa played hers, and Ben had his games. Castiel had grown to appreciate how the constancy of sound hid the silence where the voices of the Garrison had once whispered.

Dean was gone now. On his way to look at spells that could, once again, condemn his soul to Hell.

Several times Castiel had thought of calling to Rachel and informing her of the existence of the copy of Matteuccia's original notes. He did not follow through. If he had, if he'd called on his former sister to do such a favor for him, then it would be only right for her to ask of him a similar favor. He would not be beholden to an angel. Not even one with whom he'd once been close.

Instead he would have fait– He would believe that he had remembered the symbols correctly and that they would be enough to insulate Dean from the emanations that the grimoire produced. Dean would read the notes, he would return in two days likely without a solution, and hopefully, this would end his quest to reverse the Horseman's spell.

The thoughts swooped through his mind in an endless repetitiveness. Dean. Sam. The Garrison. What had been. What would never be again.

After the work in the His body should have fallen into sleep like an alcoholic standing beside a lake of alcohol… Except, it was quiet.

Well, it was as quiet as the human world ever got.

The refrigerator hummed, the heating system whirred. The house creaked and the wind sighed. The problem, he determined, was that Dean wasn't there, filling the space between them with his very human presence. Without Dean's breathing and his restless sleep making the bed creak and the coverings rustle, it wasn't the right quiet. It wasn't enough to hide the fact that Castiel was alone in this body.

Humans were always alone, he knew. They just hid the fact by seeking out noise. Or other humans.

When Ben hadn't wanted to be alone in the middle of the night, he had gone to Lisa.

The simple solution loosened the tightness in Castiel's chest and he finally took a more normal-sized breath. It took mere moments for thought to translate into action. He quickly navigated through the darkened house, not needing the pathetic illumination provided by Lisa's string of flower-shaped lights. Then he was standing at the door to Lisa's bedroom.

It wasn't completely shut.

Should he still knock?

Ben hadn't knocked, but they'd been on the couch—knocking was impractical. However, he had stomped loudly down the stairs as if to announce his presence.

Was knocking necessary when asking for comfort?

He tried searching through Jimmy's memories but they were inconclusive. If Claire had knocked before entering their room, Jimmy had never heard it. The child had always just appeared by her parent's bedside.

He gave the door a gentle push. It swung open silently, as if in invitation. He stepped inside Lisa Braeden's bedroom, and stopped.

She didn't wake up screaming, and none of his former brethren appeared to smite him. Nor did a yawning chasm open at his feet. It was decidedly anti-climactic.

Castiel let out the breath he hadn't been aware of holding, and moved the rest of the way to the side of Lisa's bed. "Lisa?" he called softly. "I cannot sleep."

There was no response, so he said it again but louder. The mound that was his hostess shifted and her face emerged from the covers. "Wha?" Her voice was rough and slurred.

"I cannot sleep," he repeated. "The room is inhumanly quiet without Dean, and I remembered, when he couldn't sleep, Ben derived comfort from being close to you."

Lisa lifted herself up on one arm, using her other hand to rub her face. "You want to snuggle?" she asked.

"If that is what it is called, then yes, I wish to snuggle."

She looked at him in the dark, blinking in what Castiel deduced was confusion, not thought. He wondered what she saw. Was she afraid that he would attack her?

Castiel was aware enough of the human world to know that such things happened with alarming frequency, but he hoped Lisa knew he would never hurt her in such an ignominious manner. Not when she had been so very kind to him when she had no need to be.

But perhaps her kindness had limits?

"I am sorry. I am too forward," he stammered, backing away. "It is asking too much."

"Do you hog the covers?" she broke in.

"I beg your pardon?"

She ignored him. "I suppose it doesn't actually matter," she mumbled. "Not like the house is freezing." She lifted the blanket the same was she had with her son, and invited him to join her.

Castiel paused, hardly able to believe that the offer was genuine, before he slid in beside her. He lay on his back, wondering how this would work—he could hardly tuck himself in under her arm. Lisa made it easy by pushing him onto his side and fitting herself along his back.

Her arm came around his waist, holding him in a lose circle. "You better not snore either," she said indistinctly.

"Dean is the one who makes noise as he sleeps," he responded, very aware of the warm breath seeping through the cloth of his sleeping shirt and heating his spine.

She snorted lazily. "I 'member."

Sleeping with Lisa was nothing like sleeping with Dean. She was closer to him, and her body was softer than Dean's. She smelled and felt different. She was quieter. She was very soft. Yet, her breathing was even and soothing, and her presence was warm and human. It was what he had determined he needed in order to achieve unconsciousness, but sleep was eluding him.

"Take a breath. Feel it filling your lungs—all the air moving through all the branches, carrying oxygen and life—then let it out." Lisa's gentle instruction was impossible not to follow. "As you breathe out, let the tension drain from your body, like a wave rolling up from your toes and out of your mouth. Don't think, just breathe. In… Out… In…"

Castiel did as she asked. He breathed in as she did, out when she did. He emptied his mind, and relaxed his body to the rhythm she had set. And when she ordered him to sleep, he did that too.


	5. On the Head of a Pin

Castiel awoke when Lisa's alarm sounded.

Unfortunately, he awoke with his standard morning erection.

It hadn't bothered him to experience it while sharing a bed with Dean. After all, Dean had been the one to tell him it was perfectly normal in a healthy male. However, he wasn't sharing a bed with Dean. He was sharing it with Lisa, and pressing his engorged genitalia against her seemed somehow impolite.

He shifted to lie quietly on his back.

The clock beside the bed continued to beep annoyingly, and Castiel wondered if he should attempt to find its off-switch. Before he could decide, Lisa lifted herself up and reached over him to turn off the device. At first he thought she would climb right out of bed, but she didn't. Instead, she leaned on one elbow and looked down at him.

He looked back.

"Mornin'," she said, and her voice, though slurred with the remnants of sleep, was even and unembarrassed.

"Good morning," he responded, holding himself very still.

"Did you have a good sleep?" she asked.

"Thank you, yes," he replied. "I slept very well."

She nodded but said nothing further. Instead she picked the sleep from her eyes—another expression he still didn't understand—and ran her tongue around her mouth in an ineffective attempt to remove the build-up on its surfaces. It was a gesture he himself indulged in, unused to the rough sourness on his teeth.

"Do you work today?" he asked when she still didn't move. Although she had no classes to teach, Lisa had other duties at the college: finalizing marks, planning next year's courses, and something she called "schmoozing the boss".

"Nooo, I don't have work," she said unhappily. "But Ben has school, so he needs breakfast and a lunch."

It was an opportunity to escape. "He usually has eggs, does he not?"

She nodded. "And toast."

"And you make him a sandwich for later, with fruit, cookies, and juice."

She gave him a lopsided smile. "I didn't know you were paying attention."

"I am trying to learn how to be human," he replied. "Food preparation seems to be a large part of the experience."

She chuckled and her smile broadened. She had a pleasant smile. "I suppose it is."

Her alarm beeped again and her smile fell away. She sighed unhappily.

"I will make Ben breakfast, and prepare his lunch," he offered.

She blinked at him. "You know how?"

"If I do not, then Ben surely does," Castiel said. "He has proven to be a most able guide in the kitchen."

The smile was back. "He does like his food." She looked at him in concern, her eyes were kind. "You don't have to."

"I would be awake regardless," he said. "This way, you can sleep a while longer."

"It's a deal," she said with a smile. "Tell Ben I love him, but I love sleep more. He'll understand." Then she flopped nearly face down on the bed, shut her eyes, and burrowed back under the covers. It was abrupt—very abrupt—and Castiel was somewhat shocked that she would entrust her son's wellbeing to him so easily.

He decided that her actions were a compliment—a sign of trust. It had merely been so long since he felt deserving of trust, he hadn't recognized it.

He crawled out of the bed, still wearing the soft sleep pants and T-shirt from last night but they were clean and they adequately covered his body. He stepped out into the entryway just as Ben scrambled down the stairs. He stared at Ben, and Ben stared back, eyes wide in what Castiel thought might be shock.

"You were in–"

"I will be making–"

He stopped speaking. Ben also stopped speaking. They stared at each other a while longer.

"I will be making your breakfast and your lunch today," Castiel finally informed the boy.

Ben blinked. "Okay. That's cool." His eyes slid sideways to his mother's door. "I'm going to beat you to the bathroom," he said and slid away without saying another word.

Castiel followed at a lesser pace, going straight through the opening into the kitchen. He assembled the ingredients for scrambled eggs. Dean preferred his eggs plain: "just cheese, no green stuff" Castiel had heard many times on the road, so Castiel prepared Ben's the same way.

Preparing breakfast and lunch for the boy was easy. Making him sit down and eat it was the difficult part. He needed to find a certain shirt that he was sure his mother had washed. He remembered that he'd forgotten a report upstairs. He wanted to play on his hand-held gaming device. He wanted to discuss how his friend Chris had already earned ninety-nine trophies in a game he'd only had for three days.

The rambling was entertaining, as it usually was, but he wouldn't look at Castiel.

Castiel couldn't help but think that the aimless discourse was hiding what Ben actually wanted to discuss, which was, if he wasn't mistaken, this morning's meeting outside his mother's room. He thought of pushing, but remembered how both Dean and Sam reacted to intrusive questions and decided against it for now.

Then it was time for Ben to go—Chris' mother was picking him up to take to school today, as she did every Friday.

Once again, Castiel was alone.

He could go back to bed, either with Lisa or on the couch, but he did not feel the need for further rest. So what was he to do now?

The logical action was to do what he normally did, which was to clean his body.

He showered quickly, and dressed in his usual Dockers. A plain, blue T-shirt under what Dean called a "dress shirt" (though it wasn't nearly long enough to cover his legs), and dark, thick socks (since shoes were not to be worn in the house) and he was ready for the day.

Except that he was really not.

He sat at the kitchen table and tried not to hear the silence inside him. There were noises from outside Lisa's home: birds, cars, dogs, people; and there were noises from inside Lisa's home. None of them were angels talking to each other.

He jumped up, determined not to wallow in self-pity.

This was how humans spent their lives. It was difficult, and often lonely, but it was _life_. He needed to get on with living. He owed it to Jimmy and Amelia and Claire, to his Brethren who'd been killed trying to protect the Seals their superiors had wanted broken. And then there was his debt to Lisa and Ben, who had taken him in and taught him so much. He owed it to Dean who hadn't abandoned him, but mostly he owed it to Sam who had sacrificed everything.

He stared at his hands—Jimmy's hands, mortal hands and essentially powerless.

He could not change the world, not anymore, but he could make a difference in the lives of the people with whom he now resided. Lisa desired sleep: he would not wake her. Instead he would do the chores she normally performed on Fridays.

Kitchen: empty the dishwasher; check for detritus in the drain then insert the dishes from breakfast. Wipe the counters, shifting the small appliances and countertop storage units to clean behind and underneath. Finally, sweep the floors, pulling the large appliances away from the wall to clean behind them.

This led to sweeping the floors throughout the main level of the house and then the stairs, which led to picking up the clothes Ben had left on the floor of his bedroom and adding them to the laundry basket.

Laundry was another task he could perform, he decided as he carried the heavy basket down to the basement. Once he saw the controls for the machine, however, he decided to await instruction before attempting it.

Instead he decided to wash the area near the front door where the outside shoes were stored. He had to move the braided rug to clean the area properly, and dirt literally fell out of it.

He stared at the oval pattern left behind and thought that it explained why Lisa took the small rug outside and shook it. He _had_ thought it a method to release aggression, but it was obviously far more pragmatic. It would be nearly impossible to properly clean the small rug inside the house without transferring the dirt to areas that he'd already cleaned.

He opened the front door, stepped out, and then bent down to carefully lift the heavy rug over the doorstep, trying not to release anymore dirt onto the floor. He straightened, turned, and saw the tidy, middle-aged Asian man standing on the sidewalk watching him.

There was nothing overtly threatening about the stranger. He was neatly dressed in a style similar to Castiel's own. He did not glower or jitter. His hands were outside of his clothes and fell, relaxed and open, at his sides.

Castiel did not know which angel had come to visit, but he knew that one was standing just outside the ward stones he and Dean had created and placed at the edges of Lisa's property.

He could go talk to his former brother. Or he could ignore him.

Castiel stepped to the gravel driveway and started shaking the rug. Clouds of dirt plumed from it. Bits of gravel fell to the ground and sounded like dried seeds in a hollow tube. The slight crack he elicited from snapping the heavy object was satisfying.

He did not look at his visitor, did not acknowledge his existence in any way.

"Castiel. Brother."

Castiel didn't stop in his task. The angel didn't stop calling his name, calling him "brother".

Perhaps angels were genetically incapable of 'getting a clue', Castiel mused. He knew he, as an angel, had been oblivious to any non-verbal message from humans. "I am no longer Brethren."

"Your circumstance might have changed, but you will always be my brother."

_He's my brother._

_We don't stop looking out for each other._

_Family don't end at blood, boy._

Castiel sighed. When he'd wanted to hear voices in his head, those weren't the ones of which he'd been thinking.

He turned to the angel. "Hello, Elemiah."

Even without enhanced vision, Castiel saw Elemiah's shoulders drop as he relaxed. Obviously, he had expected to be rebuffed.

Another angel appeared beside Elemiah.

"Rachel," Castiel nodded to his old friend.

Then another, and another, until the sidewalk was filled with a small horde of tidy people all staring intently at him.

Castiel's shoulders dropped in resignation. He walked to the corner and kicked over one of the warding stones. "The backyard. We can have some privacy there."

The horde instantly disappeared. Castiel trudged up the driveway, past Lisa's tiny car, and through the carport. He carefully draped the small rug over the railing for the stairs that led to the back deck. He peered wistfully at the protected deck before taking the last few steps into the yard. It was filled with angels, packed tight enough to resemble pickles in a jar.

Unsurprisingly, it was Rachel who stepped forward. They had served together for centuries. They had even spent off-duty time together marveling at their Father's creations.

"Castiel, you must help us."

"I do not have to," Castiel countered sharply. Then he sighed. "However, as I have free will, I may choose to do so."

There were confused murmurs in the furthest ranks, but the three standing at the front, Rachel, Elemiah—and Mehiel if he recognized the angel's academic-styled vessel correctly—were silent. Mehiel's silence was, perhaps, the most troubling. As the patron angel of professors and orators, silence was not Mehiel's default.

"There is no one to guide us," Rachel stated.

"We have no direction," Elemiah added.

Mehiel cleared his throat, and Castiel braced himself. "What we mean to say is the directions we received in Revelation have turned out to be… disingenuously incomplete."

"You mean your leaders lied to you," Castiel said bluntly.

A low, sad sound echoed in the small space.

Rachel spoke over the murmurs. "You saw through those lies," she said. "You know the Truth of what the archangels planned. You know the Truth of the events that upset those plans."

Mehiel took over, "Because of Michael and Raphael's mendaciousness, you know far more than we. Even _I_, once tasked with devising the method of bringing his Son to life on Earth, was not included in planning the fight against Lucifer—which should have alerted us immediately that Michael's plan was not wholly legitimate." He lifted a hand to cut off the comments that none of the other angels had made. "However, and more importantly, their secretiveness is perhaps why there are no Strategies in place for the situation in which we currently find ourselves."

"It is hard to prepare for that of which you are not aware," Castiel agreed neutrally.

"We need the wisdom that your knowledge can give to us," said Elemiah. "Will you share your knowledge, Brother?"

A falsely simple request, for it meant telling them everything. Laying bare his mistakes, his gullibility, his culpability. He would stand before them completely vulnerable. And help them be the better Guardians of the Earth than he had managed.

He wanted to scream.

"I do not know how much my knowledge will help you," he said, keeping his voice low and controlled. All would be able to hear him.

"When did you know that the archangels were creating their own orders, rather than following God's?" asked a voice from the back.

"I didn't," Castiel replied. "I still do not explicitly know that, as I was unable to find our Father to ask Him."

The murmuring became a restless ocean, cresting against a rocky shore.

"I did know that what Zachariah asked of me was counter to the Orders I had heard from our Father's lips." It was a pale offering, but it did reduce the discomfited murmurs from the back. "Since I knew what Orders He had last given us, and since He had not personally rescinded those Orders, I decided that I would follow _His_ words. Not Michael's, not Raphael's, and certainly not Zachariah's."

The murmurs grew again, but this time they were satisfied, content. Zachariah had been obeyed, but not admired.

"Has Father spoken to you?" a different voice asked.

"No," Castiel answered sadly. "Has He spoken to you?"

Small hums and headshakes. An undercurrent of fear.

"So what do we do now?" Rachel cut in. "We have no purpose."

"Of course you do," Castiel said. "You have the purpose God gave to us upon our creation. It has not changed just because our circumstances have."

His socks were wet, Castiel realized. He had not remembered to put on shoes.

"He told us to obey Michael, but you did not," Elemiah pointed out.

"God gave us tasks and ordered us to perform them," Castiel countered. "He then told us that should unusual events occur requiring an immediate response, we were to listen to Michael. 'Telling' is not 'ordering'. 'Listening' is not obeying."

Mehiel nodded his head, acknowledging the logic of Castiel argument. "A fine distinction," the angel said. More tension left the group.

"Our Father's orders were not qualified," Mehiel continued, raising his voice as if to gain authority. "They were to be obeyed _as stated_. His instructions regarding Michael's authority were qualified: unusual events requiring an immediate response."

"Are there unusual events occurring?" Castiel asked.

"Lucifer was freed by the Chosen One," one voice said. "Gabriel was found and slain," said another.

Castiel shook his head. "Those are in the past and cannot be prevented, altered or controlled."

"Michael and Raphael have taken some angels from the Garrison into Hell in order to find and free Lucifer once again," Mehiel stated. "They wish to restart the Apocalypse."

"Can you prevent them from pursuing their quest?" Castiel asked.

Quick sideways looks resulted in firm headshakes.

"Can you alter or control it?"

Again, quick looks followed by headshakes.

"We could stop them," suggested a rather small angel. Her vessel could not have been over twenty years of age—a baby. It reminded Castiel of Jimmy's daughter and he sighed in sadness and regret. He had not done well by his vessel's family, no matter what Zachariah's opinion had been at the time.

The discussion continued without him. Some hoped that the two remaining archangels could be convinced to change their minds. Most hoped they became trapped in Hell and never make it out. A vocal group advocated attacking the archangels _in _Hell, taking advantage of their distraction. The angels were hardly waiting for one to finish commenting before another talked. It was actually a heated debate for them.

Castiel raised his hand and all fell silent. "An attack on Michael and Raphael right now would be suicide," he declared. "And God's direction on suicide was very clear."

Relieved looks and nodded heads.

"However, you need to prepare for when they succeed in opening Lucifer's cage," he added, and the relieved expressions were wiped from the faces of the vessels.

"When?" Rachel asked.

"When," he confirmed.

"We will fight, of course." That had to be Abrinael; it was her nature to enjoy a fight. Castiel was surprised that she had not been one of the angels recruited to go into Hell with Michael and Raphael.

There were murmurs of agreement, some eager, most resigned.

"Why?" Castiel asked and the murmuring stopped.

Rachel looked at Mehiel who looked at Elemiah who looked at Castiel. "Why wouldn't we?"

"If our Father had wanted Lucifer dead, do you not think He would have killed him instead of merely ordering Michael to banish him?"

The murmuring became an angry ocean, crashing against an unforgiving shore.

Castiel was surprised to realize that most of it wouldn't be audible to human ears. He wasn't quite hearing the conversations as he had when he'd had his Grace, but neither was he completely limited by being in Jimmy's body. Something to think about later, perhaps.

"So what do we do?" Rachel asked.

"Carry on with the patrols," Castiel answered. "Perform your allotted duties when called upon to do so, and research ways to minimize the damage to the Earth and the creatures that dwell on it."

"And if the best way to 'minimize the damage' is to kill Lucifer?" Elemiah asked.

"And his vessel," added a voice from the back in harsh tones.

Rachel looked at him, almost in apology. "We are aware of how fond you have become of the Chosen brothers."

Castiel looked at his once and forever family. "If the only way to stop the Apocalypse and the destruction of the world is to kill Lucifer and Sam, then those are options that will have to be discussed."

.o0o.

Lisa was awake and sipping coffee when Castiel returned to the house. She stood at the back door so he'd know that she'd seen the not-so-little meeting in her back yard.

She looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup and was careful to keep any judgment, either for or against, out of her eyes. "Were those angels?" she asked, though she pretty sure already. They had the same inhuman stillness that she'd seen in Castiel, except magnified a hundred times.

"Yes," he confirmed. He avoided her gaze by removing his damp socks. "I forgot my shoes."

She ignored the bait even though part of her wanted to grab a towel and rub warmth into his toes. "What did they want with you? Are they going to make you an angel again?"

Castiel sighed. "In order to rejoin the Garrison as an angel, I would need to reclaim my Grace—what's left of if. If any of it still exists, it is likely in the deepest cage in Hell with Lucifer. I doubt any of my brethren _can_ get it out for me."

Except those that would not give it back.

"Ah," she said understanding the unspoken codicil. "Thank you for cleaning the house. I appreciate it."

"I appreciated your company last night," he replied. "I slept very well."

"Better than with Dean?" She was teasing, but she knew Castiel would answer the question anyway. It was always interesting to hear his response to rhetorical questions. She waited, eyebrow up in anticipation.

"You smell better than Dean."

She froze. "I… smell better?"

"It is a softer smell," Castiel tried to explain. "Comforting. I have memories of Jimmy burying his nose in Amelia's hair and just breathing in the scent."

"I smell like Amelia?" Lisa wasn't sure she liked that idea. Maybe it would help him bring more of Jimmy's memories forward, but the idea that she'd been a stand-in for Castiel's second-hand memories of his vessel's former wife was disturbing.

"No, but there are similarities due to your gender," he replied calmly.

"Okay then." Lisa's smile was lopsided. "What else are you going to do today?"

"I thought I would learn how to do laundry," Castiel answered. "If you would instruct me on how to operate the machines."

Lisa's smile broadened and filled her whole being. "Oh, I can _definitely_ do that."

.o0o.

An hour later, Lisa was in her office, with her head in her hands, barely restraining from screaming. She'd just hung up the phone with her boss, Jim Dearling.

The Board of Directors had backed Dean Fuller's proposal. The college was going to pursue academic accreditation. It wasn't a done deal yet, Jim had said. They were just "exploring the possibility," he said. Early stages, research, fact-finding, blah-blah-blah. Platitudes, but what it came down to was her job was in jeopardy.

God_damn_ it!

She was a _good_ instructor! She _enjoyed_ it.

She got good reviews. Hell, she had a 4.7 rating on ! Her classes didn't lose many students, and most of them got decent jobs.

But she didn't have the pieces of paper, and if this upgrade went through, none of it would matter.

"You seem upset."

Castiel's quiet voice caused Lisa's heart to jump, and she actually squeaked.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I came to tell you that I've prepared lunch."

Hand at her throat, Lisa took a moment before speaking. "That's great. Thanks."

"Something is worrying you."

"It's nothing." She waved her hand to emphasize how unimportant it was. Castiel tipped his head, and frowned. Like Ben did when he suspected he was being manipulated.

"That is a falsehood," he said, voice curious, not condemning.

Lisa was glad her dusky skin provided some camouflage for her blush. "Honestly, compared to everything you and Dean have to cope with–"

"You are also coping with it," he interrupted. "You have listened to both Dean and myself discuss our difficulties and our fears. Therefore, it is only equitable that I listen to yours." His head tipped again, as he stared at her. "Is this not what friends do?"

"It's one of the things, yeah."

Castiel nodded as if satisfied. "Good. Then we shall eat, and you shall tell me what is troubling you, and then we will discuss what we can do to resolve it."

Lisa couldn't laugh at the former angel's simplistic view of it. He was so damned _earnest_. It would be like kicking a baby bird. Instead, she smiled at him and followed him into the kitchen where he had filled cut pitas with fancy scrambled eggs. A lunch that was more breakfast-y, and perfect for her first meal of the day.

"This looks great, Castiel," she said with honest enthusiasm.

He gave her a slight bow. "Thank you. One moment: I'll put water on for your tea."

She waited until he could sit with her before taking the first bite and it was good—green onions, mushrooms, cheese, bell peppers, and something to add tang.

"Is it good?" he asked in concern, and all she could do was hum and nod her head, since her mouth was full. It was enough to make him look pleased. When the water boiled, Castiel made enough tea for both them. It was… nice. Domestic, and cozy, and comfortable, and… warm.

Between one bite and the next, she started talking, telling Castiel about her job, how much she enjoyed it, and how it was all threatened because the dean didn't think a community college was important enough to support his ego. She told him that she'd need to go back to school, even though she couldn't afford it. "Besides," she finished, "it's a _stupid_ idea. The college _works_," she said. "It's not for academics or researchers. It for people who couldn't afford or didn't _want_ to go to college in the first place."

"Is there proof of that?" he asked.

"What?"

"Is there proof that your students choose your institution for those reasons?"

"Well, anecdotal evidence," Lisa slowly said. "It's come up in conversations a few times."

Castiel hummed, and looked away.

"What?" she demanded. She tapped her finger until he looked at her. "What?" she repeated.

"It just occurs to me, you have stated those things as facts, and yet you have no empirical evidence that it is so."

Lisa frowned. "You mean proof that people…"

"Would not wish to pay for or attend a more expensive institution, yes," he confirmed. "There would also need to be indications that the higher costs associated with the new instructional level would not be offset by the higher tuition fees."

"You mean, if I could prove that the enrollment would drop…" she mused. The idea turned over in her mind. Was it do-able? Probably. Her college couldn't have been the only one to make the jump from community college to degree-granting. Also, she might be able to get a few of her students, past and present, to make statements about why they come to her classes. And if she could do it, then so could some of the other instructors who were in the same situation as her.

"I might be able to assemble something," she said. "The report to the Board is apparently going to be presented in four months."

Castiel's eyebrows rose. "That does not seem like sufficient time to study all the ramifications."

"It's not," she agreed. "But it's enough time for the Dean's 'consultant' to tailor the report how Dean Fuller wants it."

"Ah," was all Castiel said.

"I just… I wouldn't even know where to start _looking_ for that kind of information," she said. "Annual reports, maybe?"

"Bobby Singer might be able to help you," Castiel suggested.

"Bobby Singer," Lisa asked with a smile. Castiel nodded serenely. "Dean's 'uncle' Bobby, who taught him how to draw Devil's Traps and designed our nifty anti-possession tattoo?"

Now Castiel was frowning at her. "You know that is the Bobby Singer to whom I am referring, so why do you continue to ask?"

She smiled. "No reason, except it seems odd to be asking a ghost hunter how to research college attendance information."

"Granted, it is not his area of expertise," Castiel conceded. "But the principles of research are likely to be the same, no matter the subject, and he is very good at research."

"Well, if you vouch for him."

The smile didn't leave Lisa's face even as they finished their lunch and split up. Castiel went downstairs to finish his laundry—"I'll teach you the wonders of ironing next"—and Lisa went back into her office to call the famous Bobby Singer.

She admitted to herself that she was curious, because this guy really had been like an uncle to Dean. Not that Dean had spoken much about him, but there was just something in his tone when he did. Her impression was that Bobby was older, still an active hunter, with some kind of violent background that had driven him to become a hunter.

_"Singer's Salvage,"_ said a gruff voice with a hint of a drawl.

"Bobby Singer?"

_"Yeah." _There was still no real warmth in his voice.

"My name is Lisa Braeden," she said. "Castiel gave me your number."

_"Well, I'll be damned."_ Now his voice was soft and warm—and amused—and Lisa knew that, somehow, it would be alright.

.o0o.

It was Friday night, their traditional night for ordering in, so Castiel hadn't prepared anything for supper. Instead, he was carefully watering and spraying Lisa's plants when Ben arrived home.

"Hello!" Ben called and he threw off his shoes and tossed his jacket up his stairs.

"Good afternoon," Castiel replied.

Ben froze. "Uh, hi," he said, as if he hadn't expected Castiel to be there. "Where's Mom?"

"She decided to do the grocery shopping early, so that she will have all day tomorrow to spend with you."

"Oh." The boy looked down at his feet.

"Do you have homework?" Castiel asked because it was, he'd noticed, the standard after-school question.

"No."

"Then would you care to play _Dynasty Warriors_?" An episodic battle game that contained real history and improbable action that Castiel had learned to enjoy—far more than he enjoyed watching _WWE_, although the battle techniques were equally improbable.

Ben shrugged one shoulder. "Sure."

"Very good. I'll just put the watering can away while you start up the game."

When he returned to the living room, juice and snacks on a tray, Ben was sitting in front of the screen, playing with his controller. Fidgeting nervously.

"What is it?" Castiel asked. Perhaps one of his Brethren had found the boy at school and had bothered him. Or perhaps a demon… "Are you alright?" he asked sharply, wishing deeply to be able to see into the boy's body and soul. It was an ability he'd lost along with his Grace.

His tone made Ben look up at him, but it was merely a quick glance before he shifted his gaze back to the screen.

"I'm fine," Ben said. "I'm just…"

Castiel placed the tray down on the end table, where the cords wouldn't knock over the contents. He handed a glass to Ben. "Just what?" he encouraged.

"You were sleeping with my mom," Ben blurted out.

Castiel blinked. "Yes. I slept with her."

"That means you're, like, having sex and stuff, right?" Castiel could see that the color in Ben's cheek was growing more pronounced.

"I–"

Ben didn't wait for him to finish. "That's what sleeping together means, and that means that you have to be careful so she doesn't get pregnant, and stuff."

"We are not engaging in intercourse," Castiel said.

Ben frowned, and looked sideways at him. "But you're sleeping with her."

"But that does not mean we're having sex."

"It doesn't?" Ben's frown turned to confusion.

Castiel shook his head. "Sometimes all it means is that we slept together."

"Oh." Ben looked at him, eyes large and confused. "So you don't love her?"

Again Castiel did not understand the question.

Ben swallowed and explained. "You're not supposed to have sex with someone you don't love. That's what they say, anyway."

Castiel was well aware that humans had sex for many reasons that had nothing to do with love. Money and the illusion of safety were common reasons, as were affection, boredom, and a need for validation. Comfort was on the list, but that wasn't the type of comfort Castiel had been seeking.

"I care for your mother as I care for you and for Dean. I have no desire to engage in sexual activities with anyone." He stopped. Rethought. "Not yet, at least."

Ben made an unintelligible noise and pushed the 'start' button for the game.

"I hope that does not disappoint you?"

Another one-shoulder shrug. "Nah, it's just…" Ben sucked his lip into his mouth, thinking. "She's got no one to stick up for her, make sure guys treat her right, you know? So I gotta do it."

Castiel's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Although concern for another is never wasted," he said carefully. "I am fairly certain your mother can defend herself. In fact, it's my opinion that stating she requires a male's protection…" Cas couldn't actually picture it, but he knew it wouldn't be pleasant. "It is probably best if you never mention this discussion to her."

Ben looked fully at him, his expression full of horror. "I'm not crazy."

Castiel actually smiled as the boy turned back to the game, muttering to himself. Then Ben suddenly turned back to stare fiercely at him. "You won't tell her, will you?"

"Certainly not," Castiel assured him. "I am not crazy either."


	6. Wishful Thinking

Dean's cell phone rang as he drove out of Memphis. He had an appointment with the guy who owned Matteuccia's grimoire in a little over an hour, and he knew who was calling.

"Hey Bobby," he answered.

"_You still going through with this?"_ Bobby asked him.

Dean's answer was short. "You know I am." Bobby's disappointed sigh was expected. "Cas and me spent a few hours coming up with some new protections," he said, hoping to cut off whatever lecture the older hunter had planned.

"_Cas knows you're gonna look at Matteuccia de Francesco's notebook, and he didn't _stop_ you?_"Bobby sounded surprised, like _really_ surprised. It was annoying.

"No, Bobby. He didn't stop me." Dean tried to keep the impatience from his voice, but knew he'd been less than successful. On the other hand, Bobby had earned it. Dean was hardly a kid needing Castiel's permission to do anything. Hell, he didn't need _Bobby's_ permission.

"_This ain't something to take lightly, Dean,_" Bobby snarled at him. "_However Matteuccia came by her knowledge, whether she sold her soul or was schizophrenic, there's no doubt it made her crazy. And there ain't one person who's touched her notes that ain't been affected by it." _

"Even your friend?"

_"Farmal is _not_ my friend. He ain't anybody's friend,_" Bobby warned. "_You remember that and don't get so caught up in the quest to save your brother that you wind up joining him down there. That's not part of the plan—you got that, boy?_"

Dean sighed. He wanted to stay angry at Bobby's mother hen routine but it was impossible. The old hunter meant too much to him—to both of them. He'd had as much a part in raising him and Sam as Jim Murphy had, almost as much as John Winchester, in fact. Plus, this _was_ dangerous stuff. Matteuccia de Francisco hadn't been the first person to write a grimoire, but hers was the first to talk about raising fallen-angels-turned-demons, and making deals for power.

"I'm gonna be there in about an hour. I'll call you before I go in, and I'll call you when I get out. That good enough for you?"

"_Not really, but I suppose it's as good as I'm gonna get, right?"_

"I'll be careful, Bobby," Dean promised.

Bobby snorted. "_Guess there's a first time for everything, then."_

Dean returned an equally mocking reply. A couple insults later and they hung up in mutual accord. He turned up the stereo and blasted it like a battle anthem all the way to Arkansas. He followed the directions he'd googled the day before, and ended up on a narrow, once paved but long ignored, driveway, in front of a sky-high fence that looked far better maintained than the road.

Henry Farmal was serious about keeping people out.

He called Bobby like he'd promised then he got out of the car. He didn't _want_ to get out of the Impala, but he had to in order to reach the buzzer, which had been placed well to the side of the gate. Nobody was driving onto the guy's property without stopping that much was obvious.

Dean looked up when he heard a whirring noise and saw a security camera followed him as he moved, a little, red light flashing on top.

The middle of freaking nowhere, Dean thought, and the dude had a 10-foot fence topped with razor-wire and a security system. Although, if he had half the crap Bobby said he had, maybe the security was a good thing.

Between the over-tall fence and the leafy trees there was barely any light to see the small reinforced door, but the buzzer button was lit, waiting for someone to touch it. Dean stared at it, even considered splashing it with Holy water, before he gave his nerves a hard shake and told them to smarten the fuck up.

When he finally pressed the doorbell, an overhead light came on and another camera whirred to life. He half expected the door to swing open automatically (ominous, creepy music included).

It didn't.

He waited as the camera above him whirred

And he waited.

He was about to push the button again when a slightly de-humanized voice came through the speaker. "Yes?"

"Uh yeah," Dean said awkwardly—he hated these things. "We have an appointment?"

"Dean Winchester?"

"Yeah."

"Prove it."

What the…? Who else would be showing up at the friggin' door? Dean didn't figure this guy got a lot of travelling salesmen traipsing up to his place.

"You wanna see my driver's license?" he asked sarcastically.

A dry chuckle was emitted from the speaker. "Hardly. Those are far too easy to falsify, don't you agree? No," the voice continued. "If you really are Dean Winchester, you have far better proof of your identity. Show me the scar."

Dean had lots of scars, but only one of them was something not just any hunter could've picked up. "My scar?" he asked, stalling.

"Don't be coy," the voice chuckled. "The angel's handprint from when you were raised from Hell. Only the _real_ Dean Winchester has one of those."

He couldn't even say no because it was cold: it was May in Arkansas, not January in Alaska.

"Well, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean was tempted to call the guy on his assholery, but then he thought of Sam down in the cage, and swallowed it. He undid his flannel shirt and shrugged his left arm out of its layers in one pass. Then he gritted his teeth, and pushed up the sleeve of his T-shirt and presented Cas' mark to the camera.

It could've been the wind, or some other funky sound effect, but Dean didn't think so. He was pretty sure the guy made the kind of sound that most other dudes reserved for seeing Ms. December for real.

A shiver ran up Dean's spine and his hair stood up. There was something so wrong about that voice. Creepy fuck.

"That proof enough?" He didn't bother disguising that he was pissed off.

"Indeed," the voice said on a breath. "Please do come in, Mr. Winchester."

The small door by the buzzer opened.

"My car–"

"Will be perfectly safe, Mr. Winchester," the voice purred. "The outskirts of Forrest City are hardly a hot-bed of crime."

He didn't want to do it. Oh sure, the Impala would be safe, here in the middle of bugger all, but leaving her behind meant that Dean would have to be buzzed back out when it was time to leave. He didn't like that idea at all. He chewed his lip as he considered stopping this right now. Just saying 'screw it' and heading back to Memphis for the night, or even back to Indianapolis.

Except, again, it was Sam's life on the other end of this, and 'feeling uncomfortable' wasn't enough of a reason to back out.

On the other hand, extra protection was never a bad idea…

Mind made up, Dean walked over to the passenger side and opened the door. He'd stashed his gun in the glove compartment, willing to risk a random traffic stop in order to have it closer at hand than the trunk.

"No weapons, Mr. Winchester," the voice ordered.

Dean looked up to see that a security camera had followed him. Double shitpissfuckdamn.

He made a show of locking the glove compartment and then all four doors before he walked back to the door in the fence. There was a 'click' as it re-opened and, with one last quick prayer to an unnamed power, Dean slid through.

The door, when it closed, sounded like a prison gate shutting behind him, locking him in. He tried not to worry about that, but his first step into the yard was cautious, all senses searching for threats.

No feral dogs or burly rent-a-cops jumped out at him to drag him away. No holes to Hell opened up at his feet, but Dean didn't relax. For one thing, it was chilly.

There was about twenty yards to the front door, and he'd stepped from the shade at the wall into the sun of the open courtyard, yet it felt like the temperature had dropped about five degrees. It wasn't ghost-cold, but it was weird. Dean didn't think weird was a good thing in this place.

For another, Cas' drawn-on sigils were buzzing against his skin.

He walked up the brick path to the modest ranch-style house, and tried very hard to _not_ think about yellow brick roads or wicked witches, but as he walked, breezes fluttered around him, plucking at his clothes, swirling around him with seeming deliberation. The wind was either trying to pull him away from the house or towards it except it couldn't get a good grip. It might have been his imagination, but the wind seemed to get stronger, more frantic, the closer he got to the shadowed porch, and the harder it blew, the stronger Cas' sigils buzzed.

Freaky got added to weird and creepy.

Two steps up, two steps over, and he was at the door. Again, he expected it to open automatically. Again, it didn't.

Dean raised his hand to knock, so of course that's when it swung open.

To his surprise there was a person in the doorway. It was a very short person, and a very round one, but it was definitely human. Dean knew because he said "Christo" unintentionally and the guy's eyes remained normal.

"Mr. Winchester—Dean," the person said. "Nice to know we're both human." It was like being talked to by a ball, a light brown ball that barely reached his sternum. He was looking at Dean out of eyes so buried in flesh that Dean couldn't even figure out the color.

"Henry Farmal?" Dean said back, trying to see beyond the basic impression of 'round' to the actual person. It was impossible. Round, soft, and bald was about all there was. Any facial expression was hidden beneath layers of padding. He was like that Buddha statue of Lisa's, the one with dozens of kids crawling all over him, except this guy wasn't smiling.

"You _are _Henry Farmal?" (Fair ball, Dean's mind substituted, which led to the question: fair ball or foul?)

There was an upturning of thin lips that might have been a smile on anyone else. "Of course. Please come in." He stepped back and raised a short arm to wave Dean into the dim hallway.

"I understand from our mutual acquaintance that you wish to read Mattueccia's grimoire. It's a very dangerous book, Mr. Winchester, as I'm sure you're aware. There are certain, hmm… precautions I must take before allowing you to see it. Or rather, before _it_ sees _you_."

Farmal's voice was like his expression: impossible to categorize. It was like a boy's just before puberty—right on the edge of being feminine.

"I know its reputation," Dean said since Farmal seemed to be waiting for some response from him.

Again he made that little almost smile—like someone enjoying a guilty pleasure. "You need to have a strong mind and will to resist its pull, Mr. Winchester. You survived Hell, so you must have something going for you."

"Uh, thanks?" Dean forced out because the way Fair Ball had said it, it hadn't sounded like a compliment.

"A key player in the Biblical Apocalypse, from what I heard. Although that doesn't automatically put you on the side of the righteous." Fair Ball held out a silver flask. "If you would, Dean."

"Holy water?" Dean asked.

"Bourbon," Fair Ball corrected with another not-quite-a smile. "With something added."

Dean looked at the flask. He would've been happier with a beer; at least the bottles were semi-transparent. There was no way for him to know what 'something' had been added to the flask. On the other hand, asking a visiting hunter to take a swig of holy water-laced alcohol was pretty standard…

He took the flask, sniffed it once (really cheap bourbon, the bastard), and took a healthy drink. He breathed out evenly. "Good enough?" he asked.

"Indeed," Fair Ball purred in satisfaction.

Oh yeah, Dean thought. He's not psycho at all.

He followed Fair Ball—and he really should stop referring to the guy like that before it slipped out in conversation—he followed his host down a hall tiled in dark, shiny stone, with dark wooden beams and dark furniture. There were windows: in the walls, at the far end, and even in the roof, but they did nothing to brighten the place. In fact, it almost seemed like the shadows reached out to him, stretching from their allotted corners, trying to touch him…

He was thrown back nearly four years, to that hunt he and Sam did in that abandoned asylum; the one where the patients had killed the doctor. As if every nook, every cranny, every corner of Henry Fairmal's house held secrets. Or at least, ghosts with secrets to tell.

"–what it felt like."

Dean pulled his mind back into the now. The past was done after all, so the only thing to do was to plow forward. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said I've been writing a treatise on how various types of supernatural experiences affect us physically. I have plenty of documentation on how spirits affect temperature, for example, but as you can imagine, meeting someone who isn't a demon but has escaped from Hell, doesn't happen very often." Dean thought he saw dark-colored eyes cut his way. "I was hoping you would describe the sensation for me."

Dean would rather have his guts ripped out through his mouth—again.

"I don't actually remember it," he said diplomatically.

"Really?" Fair Ball's voice dripped mocking disbelief.

"Just the waking up in a coffin part. _That_ I remember good."

"Really," he repeated, his voice still mocking. "You don't remember feeling the heat of Hell under your skin? In your veins? The feel of stepping on living flesh?"

Dean stopped, just… stopped. "How the fuck–"

Farmal smiled, actually smiled, at him. "I have access to a great many books, Dean—_specialized_ books. Many of them contain personal accounts. Channeled through spiritualists and mediums for the most part, of course."

Dean noticed that he'd said "most" of the accounts were second-hand. That meant he had some first person accounts of Hell, which meant he had books by or had spoken to demons. Bobby's warnings were beginning to sound like too little-too late.

Sam, he reminded himself. This was to save Sam.

"Look," he tried to sound reasonable. "I've done my best to forget anything that I might have remembered, and if I couldn't forget? Then I tried to blur it. You mentioned heat and now I remember heat. I remember actually slipping off stuff because there was so much sweat." And other liquids but Dean didn't want to mention that.

"Lucifer frosted a window with his breath," Dean threw out there. "Like in that poem–"

Fair Ball took the bait. "Dante's _Inferno_?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. You think the author knew something?"

"It's always possible, Dean." Dean was really beginning to dislike the way the guy said his name. His smile didn't help any. "Matteuccia's notes are through here," Fair Ball said lifting his arm and directing the hunter into a smaller (and darker) antechamber.

It was hard not to freeze in the doorway.

There were no windows, and the lights were recessed in or around dark furniture—dark red furniture. Pale, weird sculptures cast long, weird shadows, and anywhere there was wood, it was dark red and deeply grained. Dean didn't need to look at Fair Ball to know that the guy had chosen it specifically because it looked like muscle stripped of its skin, because he'd realized the room was _supposed_ to look like Hell. Rooms made of bone and living muscle.

The shadows writhed as if alive and reaching out to him. Or maybe, it was the light that was struggling to reach him. Either way, it was making him want to shoot something.

He took deep breaths, the kind that were supposed to be calming. He repeated that this was for Sam. He could do this for Sam. He told himself that he really couldn't kill the sick fuck, not until he did something to deserve it.

Once he thought he had himself back in control he looked at _Foul_ Ball—no surprise that the guy was watching Dean like he was an ant trapped under a magnifying glass on a sunny day.

Can't kill'im Can't kill'im.

Some of what he was feeling must've shown on Dean's face because Foul Ball backed up a half-step before forcing himself to stop. Even then, the guy's look of fright only lasted a moment before it turned into something closer to _arousal_. Dean's anger, his pain, his fear—all the emotions that _hurt_—were what Foul Ball wanted to see.

_Cant_kill'im. _Cant_kill'im.

"The notes?" Dean reminded the guy.

"Yes, of course, Dean," Foul Ball smiled wider than ever before, creepy and smirkish. "It's here."

A light came on over a high, slant-top stand in the far corner of the room. Dean blinked in surprise: it didn't _look_ like a nearly 700-year-old book. It looked like a box.

He stepped closer.

It _was_ a box, but it held oddly opaque plastic sheets. As Dean got closer, he could see that each sheet held one ragged page.

"The sheet protectors are acid-free. They allow me to handle Matteuccia's notes without damaging them. However, they provide only minimal protection from the power contained within."

"They're supposed to be cursed, like Tut's tomb, right?" Dean said, because it was better than punching the creepy shit.

Foul Ball continued almost-smiling, eyes hidden behind plump eyelids and rolls of fat. "Not cursed, Dean," he contradicted. "But for certain people—certain _weak_ people—gazing at the pages, reading the information they contain, can be risky. Sudden personality changes, that sort of thing."

"Great. Can I look at it now?" Dean asked.

"As I am unsure of its likely effect on you, I am half tempted to refuse. There is a chance your mind could be overwhelmed..." Foul Ball said slowly, watching Dean for any signs of despair. "Of course, there is also a chance that nothing will happen—that you will read her words and be completely unaffected."

Dean stared back, eyes hard and dead, the expression he'd mastered in Hell. Annoyance, not despair, was the look he was going for here. "Do I need to wear those prissy gloves?"

Dean thought the guy looked disappointed for a moment, but it was hard to tell.

"No," Foul Ball answered. "The covers will protect the paper from your body oils."

Dean nodded. He'd expected the answer, and since he'd had enough of Foul Ball's bullshit, he stepped up to the stand and lifted the first page.

"What the hell?"

He stared at the page, at the gibberish scratched on it. "What is this crap?" He turned to glare at Foul Ball. "This isn't English!" It wasn't Latin, either, which was the only other language he had any skill in.

"It is Italian," Foul Ball said, and his voice held a note of enjoyment. "Or rather, the phonetic version of how they spoke the language in Matteuccia's home town."

"You don't have a translation?" Dean growled.

"There's no need, Dean." This time Foul Ball's enjoyment was more overt. "One of the remarkable things about Matteuccia's notes is that you will be able to read the pages that are relevant to you. _If_ you survive the search for them."

Dean was about to call bullshit, but stopped. It was possible. He and Sam had come across books that could only be read by the light of the moon, or where the paper had to be breathed on with whisky breath (Irish whisky, not Scotch or Bourbon). So it was possible that the guy was telling him the truth and not just yanking his chain for the fun of it.

Although he was probably doing both.

"Let me demonstrate," Foul Ball said, and he stepped up to the high table and counted down through the pages. He carefully lifted a stack and shifted it to the other shallow box. He pointed at the newly revealed page. "Here: you should be able to read this."

Something in the way he said it made Dean hesitate. If he could read it, he wasn't going to enjoy it. He stepped up to it anyway. He looked down at the page and fought a feeling of vertigo as the ink reformed into English.

Fucking witches…

Then he read the words and swallowed down nausea.

_Six Hundred and Sixty Seals in the Mortal World. To free the Fallen One, a Tenth must be broken._  
_The First and the Last have been set by Him; the Remainder will be chosen by the Damned. _

_The First Seal breaks when a Righteous Man sheds Blood in Hell. As He breaks, so shall It break. _

_If rescued from the Fires e'er this, then the First Seal remains and our Plans will be Naught. _  
_If He remains in Hell, after the Seal is no more, all our plans will be Ruin,_  
_for only the Righteous Man can hold Michael's Sword._

_Once the First Seal is broken, and not before, then must the Righteous Man be taken up by Heaven. _

_Who is the Righteous Man and Who will be sent to rescue Him?_

_The First Demon is the Last Seal. Her Death must be on the Door so the Blood can act as Key. _  
_Only the Special Child can kill her. Only the Special Child can become the True Vessel._  
_The Special Child must be Tested and Blooded, else the Key will not turn._

_What makes a Special Child and Who should it be?_

_When the Fallen One walks the Earth again in His True Vessel, _  
_the Righteous Man will meet Him holding the Michael's Sword_  
_and the World, as it is Known, will be Destroyed._  
_The Angels will be returned to Heaven, for They will not be needed._

_Only then, will we Be as Our Father meant us._

_It can and shall be done._

_"Papnor sa bialo."_ Foul Ball's command sank into Dean.

Memories cascaded through Dean's brain, blurring the page in front of him. Sam lying dead in Cold Oak. The Crossroad Demon, smug and triumphant, somehow morphed into Zachariah's dick-ugly face. Sam, after drinking two jugs of demon blood, after three, after four. The last three years condensed and compacted, exploded through him and he wanted to run, wanted to howl, wanted to kill everything that had brought this about.

"You were the Righteous Man, were you not, Dean?"

The words oozed into his brain, dripped down into _that_ place, into _those_ memories. Heat and red and pain and screams. Darkness lurking, waiting to hurt him when he turned away.

"What do you remember of Hell, Dean?" The question leached the images from him

Alone. Alone. Emptiness. Vast chains creaking in the distance. Holding him. Where was Sam? Sam would rescue him. Sam! _Saaaaam!_

"How did you break?"

The rack. The screams. The pain. The question. _"Will you join me?"_ Pain. On the skin, being cut. In his body, being raped. In his mind. Alone. Alone. Always and ever alone.

Sam!

_"Will you join me?"_

Not this time. This time he knew what was at stake. Except he picked up the knife. He stepped up to the rack. It was Meg on the rack. Demon Meg. Taunter, torturer. She took Dad from him. She started all this. She was the reason.

_"Cut the bitch."_

Feel nothing. It's only Meg. Mustn't feel anything. Mustn't fail. Mustn't go back. Mustn't enjoy…Feel nothing, nothing, nothing…

_"I have come to rescue you, Dean Winchester."_

It was like being caught in a carbon-arc light. It scoured through him, cleared his mind, and lifted it from the quagmire of his memories. This wasn't a memory. It wasn't Alistair or Alistair's work room.

First thing he realized: he was across the room from where he started. Second, he was holding his hands up, as if ready to start cutting. He hadn't just been remembering Hell and Alistair's room; he'd been acting it out.

Dean tried to shake the last of the fuzz out of his brain, but all that did was make the world spin. Now he had to decide whether to throw up right here on Foul Ball's disgusting carpet or kill the bastard, because there was no way this was a simple flashback. Son of a bitch had whammied him!

"My, my, you _are_ a naughty boy." The voice was new, light, and slightly British. And real.

Dean staggered around to face the unknown threat. The new guy was slim, scruffy and sloppily dressed in a style Dean half-remembered from Don Johnson in _Miami Vice_. He fought to focus his whirling brain on what was going on.

"–in here, past my wards?" Foul Ball practically snarled.

"Ah, yes. Your wards. Very effective against most things, even me! However, you broke them." New Guy smiled as he gestured at Foul Ball. In his hand, he held a heavy glass containing an inch of rich, brown liquid. All he needed was a cigar and he'd look like a pale Dean Martin. Well, Dean corrected, he also needed a shave and a better suit. And dark hair… smoother voice.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. It nearly helped clear his poor, battered brain.

Foul Ball was stammering in outrage, "I broke… I broke them? Preposterous! And impossible."

Dean felt like throwing up, like really, really badly, but he didn't want to sit and put his head between his knees while a fight that could kill him was happening front of him. Instead he leaned against a shelf. Something fell off of it, but Dean didn't bother checking what it was. He didn't want to know and it was a very thick carpet.

"I assure you," New Guy responded easily. "It may not have been your intention but that's what happened. The Righteous Man called and well–" he gestured at his body again. "Here I am. An angel come to rescue him."

What the…?

Dean wasn't the only one horrified by the arrival of one of Heaven's Warriors. Foul Ball screamed defiance and charged. Dean could've told him that that was a stupid thing to do, but he didn't. Instead he let Foul Ball run into the angel's upraised hand. The air 'zinged' and Foul Ball collapsed.

"Is he dead?" Dean asked, only half concerned.

"No, of course not," the angel replied. "That would have been a waste of energy and completely unnecessary."

"Eco-Angel," Dean mocked. "Nice."

"Yes, well. Heaven's infrastructure is suffering thanks to you and your friends. One must conserve where one can." Despite the condemning words, the angel's eyes were light and his voice was mild. Dean got the impression that this angel was actually enjoying having the Garrison in chaos.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Balthazar. I'm a friend of Castiel's." The angel's thin lips half-lifted in a smile that Dean didn't bother faking in return.

"Castiel doesn't have any friends among the angels," the hunter said. "If he did, they would have helped him during the last year."

"That would have involved an unacceptable amount of risk to myself," the angel replied still smiling. "Believe me when I say, Castiel would not have expected it of me."

"You're a dick," Dean accused.

"Oh, undoubtedly." The smile, if anything, deepened. "Think of me as neutral-good. Castiel does."

Dean thought of banishing him. He still had a short blade in his boot. The thought of cutting himself open, watching the blood rise from his body and run over his skin, made the nausea return full force. He'd have to touch the walls in this place with his blood…

This time he leaned over, hands on his knees, and breathed—in, out, in, out—like Lisa had showed him.

"Ah, silly me. First things first: this is for you." Balthazar was standing next to him, holding out the glass. Dean took it and sniffed it cautiously.

"Farmal drugged the bourbon he gave you—a form of sodium pentothal, I believe. This will clean it out," the angel explained. "It's Glendronach, with a dash of filtered water for smoothness."

Dean stared at him trying to figure out what glendro nack was.

"It's a single-malt Scotch, blended with fruits and lightly spiced," the angel continued. "Very rare, and very, very good. It'll put hair on your chest." Dean pointedly stared at the angel's expanse of furless skin but that only made Balthazar smile more.

It _smelled_ kind of like whisky but not like any kind he was familiar with. There was the familiar tang of fermented grains but it also smelled sweet. And strange.

On the other hand, the bourbon Foul Ball had offered him had smelled only like bourbon.

On the other-other hand, he'd already been roofied once today.

With an internal shrug, he tipped the glass and swallowed it all down. His mouth and throat were filled with a smooth, rich burn of flavor. It was definitely whisky, with something else added, something…

Balthazar was horrified. "That was… That was 21-year old, limited edition, specially casked–"

Dean licked his lips, considering. "Why does it taste like fruitcake?"

"Heathens. You're all heathens," the angel whispered and reminded Dean of a certain crossroads demon he knew.

"It was good. I do feel better," Dean allowed. "Now why are you here?"

The angel silently stared at him in horror.

"Hey, buddy!" Dean snapped his fingers. If Balthazar hadn't been an angel, Dean would've slapped him a couple times on the cheek, but hitting angels hurt too much. "Why are you here? I thought I was hidden from angels."

Balthazar shook himself out of his fugue. "You are. Hidden, I mean. But the strength of the memories you were reliving tripped an alarm upstairs."

"What?"

"Heaven's had an interest in the Righteous Man for centuries, and you are—or _were—_the Righteous Man." Balthazar lifted his eyebrows in a silent question.

"Yeah, I vaguely remember that part," Dean growled in reply.

The angel nodded. He had another glass in his hand now. This one was filled with a white-gold liquid. "Upper management set up flags to alert them to when the Righteous Man—_you_—entered Hell. They also put tracers in your blood so that _we_, the angels chosen to rescue you, could find you more easily in Hell." He paused to sip from his glass. "Normally, angels don't have a problem finding people—built-in GPS and a thousand times better than your electronic version. Hell, however, messes up the signal."

"I wasn't in Hell," Dean pointed out.

The angel raised his glass and wagged his finger in disagreement. "Hell is mostly a construct of the mind—or the soul if you prefer. It's not really a physical place, not like this–" He waved his glass in a circle. "Just like your memories are a mental construct rather than a physical one."

"You're saying my flashback tripped the alarm."

"Bingo!" The angel pointed his finger at Dean and shot him. "And since I was one of the team that was sent into the pit to get you out, the ability to hear that alarm was given to me." His lip turned up in a derisive sneer. "They must have forgotten to remove it."

"So now what are you going to do with me? Delivery me to your bosses? Or are they too busy in Hell to be bothered with you lowly grunts," Dean sneered back.

"Definitely the latter," Balthazar replied, easy and relaxed. "And I'm not going to do anything to you, or with you. Or for you, for that matter. I'm going to take Matty's notes and pretend they're the reason I came down here."

"Why?"

"Standing orders that all copies of her book are to be destroyed."

That hadn't been what Dean meant but now that the angel had said it. "Why? It's just a grimoire, isn't it? A bastardization of _The Grand Grimoire_ written by that Pope a couple hundred years before?"

Balthazar paused. He'd been stretching his empty hand out over the carefully preserved pages in preparation for disintegrating them, but he stopped. "That's a good question," he mused. The angel put his empty glass down on the table next to the box—or would have except the glass disappeared halfway there.

He lifted the page Dean had read. At least, Dean assumed it was the same page. Then the angel lifted another… and another, another. His hands moved in a blur until he stopped. "I'll be damned," the angel muttered.

It forced an amused snort from Dean. "That's what everyone says about her book."

"I can see why," Balthazar replied without a hint of humor. "Do you realize what this is?"

"Instructions on how to get Lucifer out of his cage." Or, Dean was hoping, on how to find and rescue his current vessel while leaving his satanic ass downstairs.

Now Balthazar laughed. "Not even close. These are garbled transcripts of high level planning sessions between Michael and his senior VPs, on how to bring on the Apocalypse and free us all from Earth."

"What?" Dean took a step closer then stopped, not wanting to get too close to the book.

"I don't know how she heard them," the angel said to himself.

"She tuned into Angel Radio," Dean answered, thinking of Anna.

Balthazar tipped his head, considering. "Mmm, maybe. But Matty wasn't an angel, or a nephilim, or a prophet. There's no way she should've been able to hear us talking."

"Maybe she was just schizophrenic," Dean suggested. Then wondered what difference it made: she was dead, the angel was going to take the book, and he still didn't know if it held clues on how to rescue Sam.

He took a step closer. "Look, I know I can't stop you but could you tell me…" Asking favors of the angels wasn't a good idea, the voice in his head jumped up shouting. He clenched his jaw and went on anyway. "Can you tell me if there's any info in there on how I can get Sam out of the Pit?"

"Your brother? The one who said 'yes'," Balthazar asked incredulously. "Lucifer's vessel? You want to save him."

Dean didn't bother answering, just glared at the smug bastard.

"You do realize that bringing your brother out is likely to bring Lucifer as well?"

Dean crossed his arms and glared some more.

Balthazar sighed. There was another glass in his hand. In it was pale-gold liquor. He offered it to Dean who automatically put his hand up to take it. Balthazar pulled it away. "Sip it this time."

Dean rolled his eyes but did as ordered: if it made the guy happy enough to answer the question, he could sip the fucking alcohol. Then it hit his tongue: pure, smooth whisky with a touch of apple and spice. A hint of smokiness curled through his nose, but this wasn't Hell-smoke. It was camp-fires and wiener roasts, and Sam's laughter as they settled in for the night.

Where the fuck was this guy getting this stuff?

The angel wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders, which made them tighten, but all Balthazar did was steer him towards the door. "Two things before I shut up on the matter, because it's not my business and I hope to never be involved again. One; there is no way Lucifer is going to leave your brother untouched. In Hell he _is _god. He can burn your brother's physical body to ash and rebuild it all in the blink of his eye, and that's the nicest thing I can think of him doing. Then there are the mind games. It's nearly been a month; your brother might not even be sane anymore."

The whisky tasted like dirt now. "I don't care."

"That's what I thought you'd say," Balthazar sighed. "So the second thing I'm going to say, which you equally don't wish to hear, is leave it to the archangels. If anyone can get your brother out of the cage, it's Michael and Raphael. They are powerful, obsessed, and already working on it, and next to God Himself, they have the best shot at it."

"They want Lucifer," Dean pointed out. "They don't care about Sam."

"True," Balthazar conceded, "But they can't bring up one without bringing the other. What _you_ need to concentrate on is figuring out a way to separate Lucifer from Sam once they _do_ come up."

"Is that possible?" Dean asked. They were out of the house now and Dean squinted against the bright, southern sun. There was no wind, no breezes plucking at his clothes.

"I've never heard of it. But then I don't think it's ever been attempted before," the angel replied cheerfully. "And don't forget, even if you do figure out a way to leave Lucy behind, there's the previously mentioned insanity to deal with. Possibly the best thing you can do for your brother is kill him, completely and finally."

Dean pulled away from the angel's arm so fast he nearly fell over. "Not going to happen. Ever!"

Balthazar lifted his hands. "Fine. I know blind loyalty when I see it."

"But you don't subscribe to it?" Dean sneered.

"Only when it's backed up with the threat of instant and painful death." Balthazar smiled but it was without humor. "It was blind loyalty that got you and your brother where you are today, so I'm a little surprised you're still a believer."

Dean had nothing to counter that.

They'd reached Foul Ball's ridiculous outer fence. The angel didn't bother with the door, he just touched the heavy gate and it swung open easily. On the other side, the Impala waited for him, gleaming under her light coating of road dust.

Balthazar gave him a shake. "Go back to your little hide-out and wait for word of the archangels' success," he said. Then he held out an angel sword, flashing incandescent in the sunlight. "Take this, just in case. Don't worry. It's not mine."

Dean backed away from it. Balthazar rolled his eyes and the whisky glass was swapped out for the sword. "It'll kill things _other_ than your brother… or mine."

Which was true, but not why the angel was giving it to him.

Balthazar opened the locked driver side door as easily as he'd opened the gate. He held it and waited for Dean to get in.

Dean slid cautiously past him, pulling out his key. He nearly had it in the ignition when he remembered his original question. "Was there anything in Matteuccia's notes to help me?"

The angel chuckled. "Determined, aren't you? No wonder Zachariah lost. Have I thanked you for that?"

"No," Dean answered. "And you haven't answered my question, either."

Again, the angel gave him a soft, indulgent smile. Dean swallowed down the urge to punch the sanctimonious prick.

"On my honor, Matty didn't hear or write down anything that would help you." Balthazar eased the door closed. "Say hello to Castiel for me," and then he walked away.

Dean started the car, put her in gear and drove away. He didn't bother looking back, not even when he saw the flash and heard the explosion. There was nothing for him there.

_Papnor sa bialo = _Remember and speak.


	7. Heart

Dean arrived home in the darkest, coldest hours of the night… or maybe it was the earliest, loneliest hours of the morning. Whatever time it was he was tired, depressed, dirty, and discouraged. It didn't help that the house was quiet. Not that he'd expected a welcoming committee—bright lights and dancing girls.

He still would have felt better if there'd been some proof of life.

Instead, the fridge hummed, the air whirred through the ducts, and the alarm system beeped insistently until he entered the code.

Once that protection was taken care of, he toed off his boots and redid the salt line. He made a stop in the bathroom then stepped into their bedroom only to find it empty.

Shit, he thought. Cas had been kidnapped by the angels and hauled off to boot-camp again.

He hurried towards Lisa's room. Snapped on the light as he entered.

"Lisa! Where's Cas?" he shouted before he saw that there were two dark heads in her bed, instead of one.

Oh shit. Cas was out for the night while Lisa entertained someone.

Wait. That didn't make sense either, he realized.

What made even less sense was when one of the dark heads lifted and Dean realized it was Cas in bed with Lisa.

What the fuck…

"Dean," Cas' voice was rougher than normal with sleep. "Were you successful?"

"Uh…" was his less-than-intelligent answer. He'd only been gone two days, and they'd managed to start a thing?

"Zat Dean?" Lisa's voice was barely audible.

"Yes," Castiel answered. "He has returned early."

"Cool. Tell 'im to get in or get out. I wanna sleep." Then she rolled over and buried herself under the sheet.

Dean blinked sure he hadn't heard that right, but Castiel just nodded and lifted the edge of the blanket. Dean stared at him.

"It was too quiet when you were gone," Cas explained. "I required company and comfort. Lisa offered both. Now you look like you require company and comfort."

It took Dean a moment to figure out the meaning under his friend's sentence: there was nothing going on. It was completely platonic. Cas had been lonely and Lisa had been there. Now he was being invited to join them.

Join an angel and his former girlfriend in bed.

"I, uh…" Huh. "I think I'll just–" He jerked his thumb back out the door.

Castiel nodded once. "Very well." He lowered the blanket and settled himself next to Lisa, who snuffled and moved closer.

Dean saw it, but didn't really believe it. He was shaking his head when he turned off Lisa's light. He walked slowly back to the master bedroom, with its king-size bed. It was cold and empty.

He turned on the lamp, but somehow, even with the light on it was dark. It was as if the shadows stretched out towards him, and he knew then that there was no way he was sleeping tonight without fucking dreaming. The thing with Foul Ball had shaken him enough that he hadn't stopped for the night like he'd planned. Instead, he'd kept on driving, craving whatever it was that Lisa's house offered like a promise. A promise of company, and safety in numbers which he didn't have now.

Unless…

It hadn't always worked—sharing a bed with someone just to hold the nightmares away—but then, he hadn't usually spent the whole night with them either. Because he hadn't trusted them, not like he trusted Cas and Lisa.

Fuck it, he decided. He was going to join them.

He changed into his sleeping clothes—boxers and a T-shirt. He brushed his teeth and did all the other things civilized people did before joining someone else in bed. Then he walked into Lisa's bedroom, and around to the far side of the bed because, no offense to Cas, if he had a choice between sleeping next to a woman or a man, the woman won hands down.

He felt Cas' attention on him, but ignored it. Instead, he lifted the light summer cover and slid in behind Lisa.

It was warm, and soft, and smelled like safety.

It was probably a lie but he'd take it.

.o0o.

Lisa awoke feeling hot and squished. Both sensations were easy to explain once she was totally awake because she was lying between Castiel _and_ Dean. She remembered Castiel joining her in bed as he'd asked before she'd even brushed her teeth, but she didn't remember Dean coming in.

Three adults (one slightly oversized) in a bed meant for two…

"If this is going to happen on a regular basis, then we need to shift to the master bedroom," she muttered into Dean's chest because it was right under her nose.

"_Is_ this going to happen a lot?"

_That_ voice had her shooting straight up and feeling absolutely and totally awake.

"Ben?"

"Hey, Mom," her son said in a voice that faked casual-cool pretty well. "Hi, Cas."

"Ben."

"This isn't what you think." She was grateful for her darker skin color. It hid the bright flush she could feel creeping up her neck.

"Cas couldn't sleep again, right?"

Beside her, Castiel sat up. "I confess I did not even attempt it."

"I'm trying," Dean rumbled.

"Hi, Dean."

"Aaaagh." The hunter pulled the blanket over his head.

"He is not a morning person," Castiel said in apology. "I thought it was a symptom of extensive alcohol consumption, but Sam assured me he was always this way."

A muffled curse came from under the blanket.

Lisa felt like she'd walked into some kind of comedy show. They were all being so ruddy _calm_ about it, but she had just shared her bed with two guys. It was something she hadn't done since college and, okay sure, nothing had happened, and she could understand why Castiel (with his complete lack of understanding of human morals) wasn't freaking out, but why was her _son_ so okay with it.

"It's okay, Mom," Ben said as he sat at the foot of the bed—the only place there was room. "Cas explained to me how sometimes sleeping together is just, y'know, for sleeping. Like puppies or kittens curling around each other."

"Castiel explained it?" she asked. Ben nodded. "Why was Castiel explaining it?" She could not imagine a reason for that conversation.

"Because Ben asked why I was coming out of your room yesterday."

Dean lifted the blankets. "This is fascinating, seriously," he said. "But some of us still want to sleep." Then he covered back up and rolled over.

"And some of us want to eat," Ben said with a hopeful look at her. "I was thinking… Pancakes?"

"Applesauce?" She smiled at him.

He smiled back. "Yeah! And bacon."

"Of course," she agreed.

"I have never tasted pancakes made with applesauce," Castiel said with an intent look.

Ben bounced on the bed. "They're _awesome_! Mom makes them right from scratch and everything."

Castiel nodded once. "Then I will join you. If that is acceptable."

He was still so inhuman, Lisa thought, but so cute with it. "Of course you can," she said.

Beside her Dean tossed away the covers. "Okay, screw it. Let's go make pancakes."

"I get the bathroom first," she called even as she crawled out from between everyone. "As the cook, it's my privilege."

"No one informed me of that rule," Castiel's voice was confused.

"It only works on weekends," Lisa said as Ben crawled up to take her spot between them.

The rest of the conversation was cut off as Lisa shut the bedroom door.

She felt light on her feet as she cleaned herself up, kind of giddy, and she didn't know why. Not until she walked back into her bedroom to get her housecoat and saw all three of the guys sitting up against the headboard, talking. Or rather, Ben was talking. Castiel and Dean were listening to him as if knowing Snake's story in _Metal Gear Solid_ was important for their survival.

Maybe it was working?

The optimistic bubble continued as she prepared breakfast and her guys filed into the dining room one at a time. Dean passed the plates to Ben while Castiel put out the butter and the syrups. She whacked Dean's fingers when he tried to steal some bacon, but she noticed that while he whined and complained, and garnered all the attention, Ben stole two slices and gave him one.

It could be like this all the time, she thought. The half-cheerful, half-grumpy morning routine could be _their_ routine.

Even the conversation over breakfast wasn't enough to bust her hopes.

"So Balthazar agrees that Michael and Raphael have the best chance of freeing your brother."

"Of freeing Lucifer," Dean corrected. "Sam would just be a tag-along."

"And he believes that your efforts are best directed towards devising a means to separate Lucifer from Sam."

Dean nodded. "That's what he said."

"Interesting," Castiel said with a hum. Lisa thought the sound was directed more at the food he was eating (in very small pieces) than the conversation.

"How is that interesting?" Dean closed his eyes in appreciation even as he asked the question.

"Because that is essentially what I told Rachel and Elemiah when they asked for my advice," Castiel answered.

"Wait," Lisa held up her fork. "Are we now assuming that Sam is coming out? Like, definitely, and not just a possibility?"

Castiel looked at Dean who looked back at Castiel. Lisa watched them and wondered if there was some kind of telepathic thing happening between them.

"I think that is a safe assumption," Castiel finally answered her.

That wasn't… She didn't want to say that that wasn't good, but she was pretty sure she couldn't take having another damaged male in her house. And that was only if they actually managed to separate brother from devil, because there was no way she was letting even a _remnant_ of the actual Devil into her home with her son.

"What if it's more than Sam?" Ben asked. "What do you do then?"

Lisa resisted the urge to give her son a hug: trust a kid to ask the uncomfortable questions.

"We still have the rings," Dean said.

"But would Sam have enough strength to jump back in?" Castiel asked. "Could you go back to Hell a second time, knowing what it would be like?"

Dean stabbed his fork through his pancakes hard enough to break a less sturdy plate.

"Well, it's not like we're going to solve this in the next hour, so how about we just leave it for later?" Lisa said with what she knew was forced cheer. "Ben and I had planned to see _Prince of Persia_ this weekend. Want to come?"

"There is no longer a prince of Persia," Castiel asked with a small frown. "There is no longer a Persia."

As a topic changer, it worked a treat. Ben launched into the story of the games and his favorite parts, and how long it took him to get the hang of wall running. In his enthusiasm, Sam's fate (and theirs) was temporarily forgotten. She could breathe a little easier once again, and if her bubble of optimism had shrunk, it wasn't completely popped.

She left the boys to clean the kitchen while she dressed, and thought.

What _would_ Sam's return do to the family they were creating? Would he expect to move in with them?

More likely, Dean would take off with Sam and Castiel would go with them. They'd say they'd keep in touch, and they would at the beginning, but eventually it would be longer and longer between visits, and phone calls would get shorter and more awkward. Even the emails would be reduced to 'here's a clip I enjoyed'. She and Ben would be left behind to once again rebuild their lives.

The idea hurt more than it should.

She'd known that she would become attached to Dean, or to Castiel, when she'd let them into her home. Bedraggled, vulnerable, but trying so hard to remain standing—how could she not admire that kind of fight? But she hadn't realized that she'd grow so attached so quickly.

Was she a bad person for not wanting Sam to get out of Hell?

Probably.

She looked at herself in the mirror, and knew that it was selfish and small and really bad karma, but she didn't want Sam to come along and mess up the life that she could see her and Ben sharing with Dean and Castiel.

Oh well, she reassured herself. Sam's escape wasn't certain. His escape without Lucifer was even less certain, and it sounded like if Sam brought Lucifer with him, the archangel Michael was gonna be Johnny-on-the-spot and deal with him. (And destroy half the world, her conscience whispered at her.)

So karma be damned. She had nothing to worry about until there was something to worry about.

Then her mother showed up and proved that instant karma _was_ a bitch.

"You're not my daughter," her mother announced from the front door.

Lisa heard her from the bedroom, just as she'd heard the doorbell. She'd ignored it because A) they weren't expecting anyone, and B) there were other people in the house who could answer it.

"Lisa Sophia!" Her mother's voice was two steps away from calling the cops.

Lisa finished tying up her hair and rushed to the living room.

"This is your mother?" Castiel said as he stared at figure in the doorway. He was holding the door wide open, so it was easy to see the woman at the entry. It was her mother.

Not that Lisa had doubted it. Wishful thinking wasn't doubt.

"Mom?"

"There you are!" her mother said, as if she'd been expecting to find Lisa chopped up and partly eaten.

Annette Braeden hadn't ventured off the small landing and into the house. Instead she stood like a pillar, firm hands gripping her small clutch squarely in front of her. She was dressed, as she always was, tidily and without fuss, in a pale colored skirt suit and low-heeled shoes. Her hair was a helmet, and her only jewelry (aside from her wedding ring set) was the moderately-sized cross on the moderately-long chain.

Lisa was in a bright yellow top and dark green pants. She suddenly felt like a dandelion.

"Hi, Mom. What a nice surprise." She ignored the way Castiel's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "You didn't say you were coming."

Her mother didn't do anything as crude as snort, but Lisa heard it anyway. "I learn from your sister that you have two strange men living in your house, with _my grandson_, and you expect me to _not_ come over and meet them?"

"I told you about them," Lisa said as her mother finally stepped into the house. She glanced into the living room where Dean stood between Ben and the door. The hunter—for it was obvious from his stance that was what he was—looked warily at her mother, waiting for her to attack. Ben was leaning over the couch, looking the same.

"You didn't tell me enough," her mother announced. "Are they God-fearing men?" She didn't even look at them as she said it. She barely looked at Lisa.

"Mom!"

"I love my Father," Castiel answered mildly. "He is, however, difficult to find."

"'Wait for the Lord," her mother's voice rang out. "Be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.' Psalm, 27:14."

"'I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.' Timothy, 4:7," Castiel responded evenly. "But of course, those are just words."

Mom finally looked directly at the former angel. "Do you go to church?"

"Until recently, I have never felt it necessary to bolster my faith with the workings of man. Our Father's creation is everywhere and can be worshipped from anywhere."

Lisa's mother opened her mouth to argue. Lisa was quicker. "Mom, this is Castiel. Castiel Novak."

Good manners forced her mother to put out her hand to be shaken. "Annette Braeden," her mother responded briskly. "Castiel… That's an angel's name, isn't it?"

Castiel nodded. "The angel of Thursday."

"Your parents must have been very devout," her mom said warmly.

"Not especially," Castiel said neutrally before he stepped away. Her mother's smile stiffened. She turned to Dean and her face hardened even more.

Lisa knew what that meant: Julie had told Mom about him—_all_ about him. How they'd met at a bar, how they'd spent the weekend together, and how Ben had arrived just over eight months later.

"You must be Dean."

"Yeah, that would be me." Unlike Castiel he didn't step forward. Probably because her mother had folded her hands in front of her like a shield.

"Are you a church going man, Dean?"

"Only when it's unavoidable," Dean replied, voice tight.

"You don't worry about your immortal soul?"

"No."

His voice was so flat, so final, that even her mother couldn't argue or pick the conversation back up.

"You are guaranteed a place in Heaven," Castiel said quietly as he sat down beside Ben on the couch.

"And you think I want it?" Dean snarled. "Come on; let's go back to the game. At least there the good guys win in the end." He moved away from her mother in obvious dismissal.

Her mother turned to her with a tight look. "Lisa Sophia, I'd like to speak to you for a bit. Privately."

"The kitchen?" she asked. "I could make you some tea." Oh crap. She hadn't meant to say that.

"I won't be staying. I'm on my way to your sister's. It's not right to force her to do all the housework, considering her condition."

Her mom hadn't offered to do _her_ housework when she'd been pregnant. Hook her up with a "decent, church-going man"? Sure. Support her physically or emotionally? Not a chance.

Lisa tried not to let it hurt, not after so long, but it still did a little.

Ben gave a triumphant yell. "Woohoo! I pwned you so hard! Bow down. Bow down!" he laughed.

On the other hand, there were compensations.

"She's pregnant, Mom. Not injured," Lisa commented, waving her mother back out onto the front step.

"Is that man really Ben's father?"

'Possibly' shading to 'probably', was the true answer. "Does it matter?" is what she said.

"As much as his attitude toward the church is troubling, you now have a chance to right the wrong that you have done your son by acknowledging his father. You can also correct the wrong you have done to your immortal soul by entering the holy sacrament of marriage."

"Why would I do that? Ben doesn't care–"

"Of course he cares," her mother's voice was severe. "And even if he doesn't, you should. You're his mother. His spiritual welfare is your concern."

"He's doing quite well spiritually, thank you," she said shortly. "He is kind and honest and hard-working. "

"And how long will that last when he's forced into daily contact with a man who denies the rewards of a faithful life?"

"I thought you _wanted_ me to marry Dean, Mother."

Her mother rolled her hands around each other before smoothing her jacket. She looked out over the yard. Lisa hoped Annette Braeden knew her daughter well-enough not to push her 'honest women' ideas at her. Especially when Lisa was waiting for it with clenched fists.

"How long will they be staying with you?" her mother asked instead.

"I don't know. As long as it takes for them to…" Okay, how was that sentence going to end? "As long as it takes."

"Hmm." Her mother's nostrils flared disapprovingly. She still wasn't looking at Lisa. "Weeks?"

"Probably," Lisa answered cautiously.

"Months?"

"Possibly," She paused. Rethought. "Probably."

"I will talk to Paul. He can arrange work for them—good, honest work—so that they aren't a drain on you."

Her brother-in-law owned a construction company and he was always looking for people (preferably male) who knew how to swing a hammer without injuring themselves or others. He paid well, because he considered it his duty as a Christian to pay his people enough that their spouses (meaning 'wives') could stay home and look after any kids they might have. Despite that, Paul was actually a decent guy, and it would be a good job for Dean or Castiel… if they wanted to take it.

"I'll talk to them, Mom," she said. "They might have other plans–" like rescuing a guy from Hell "–but I'll ask."

"You'd think they'd appreciate the chance to do honest work," her mother practically sniffed. It was the second or third time her mother had used the word 'honest'.

"It's not like they're drug dealers, Mom." She smiled. "In fact, Castiel was definitely on the side of the angels."

"A police officer?"

Her mother didn't actually like cops. She wouldn't allow anything bad to be said about her dead husband, but she hadn't approved of Dad's drinking, his lack of ambition, or the way he'd covered for his fellow officers when they lied on arrest reports or cheated on their wives. It hadn't happened often, just enough for her to suspect that Dad had done the same things in his life as a cop.

No. Annette Braeden wouldn't approve of Castiel having been a police officer.

"Search and Rescue," Lisa offered.

Her mother's face softened fractionally. "And Dean? What was his job before showing up at your door?"

A good guy, she wanted to answer. "Pest control."

"Pest control?" her mother echoed, sounding as if Lisa had said Dean had been a ditch digger.

"Yeah, pest control," Lisa repeated. "You wouldn't believe what gets into people's walls." Changelings, ghouls, demons… "Stuff that could eat you alive."

"Well. I'm sure he'd appreciate the opportunity to work somewhere without all those nasty chemicals." Mom fiddled with the chain of her purse. "Perhaps if he has a stable job he will achieve stability in the rest of his life."

"Mom," Lisa cut her off. "I am not planning on marrying Dean. Or Castiel. Or Paul's cousin's wife's brother. I am doing fine and so is Ben. Neither Dean nor Castiel will corrupt him or turn him into a closet Satanist—that one's right out."

She tucked her arm through her mother's and started walking her down to the sober, pearl-grey sedan parked at the curb. "The job offer's appreciated, but it's possible that neither of them will take Paul up on it. They have their own things they gotta do, and it would be worse if they agreed to work for Paul and then didn't show up half the time."

"You're saying they're unreliable?"

"I'm saying they might have priorities that differ from yours," she corrected.

"Like you, you mean," her mother said with a hurt tilt of the head that could've been real but could also be fake.

"Exactly like me." They were at the car so Lisa forced a small smile to her face. "I don't know what the future holds, Mom. I don't know if either of them will be part of it, but I do know that, until the future gets here, Ben's going to have fun kicking their asses at _Soul Calibur_."

Her mother kept her chin up and her head turned slightly away so that Lisa would know she was offended. "People will talk," she said. "A beautiful, young woman living with two men."

"Let them, Mom," Lisa said with a sigh. "Helping Dean and Castiel is the right thing to do."

One last soft sniff, then her mother was taking out her keys and opening her door. "I'll pray for you," she said, finally looking directly at Lisa. "I'll pray for you all."

There was no point in expecting her mother to change, Lisa knew. She wasn't going to magically turn into a mother she liked more or got along with better. It was either resent her for what she wouldn't offer or accept her for what she _could._

Lisa smiled and dutifully kissed her mother's cheek. "Don't pray too loud, Mom," she said to be annoying. "You never know who's listening."

She had a ways to go to reach acceptance.

.o0o.

That night, without a word or even a questioning look being exchanged, Castiel and Dean joined her in her bed once again.

As she tucked herself into Castiel's shoulder, and felt Dean's warm strength at her back, Lisa knew she could get used to this so very easily. No matter what front she put on for her mother, raising Ben on her own was hard. And scary. She second-guessed herself all the time, worried that she would make a mistake, that she wouldn't be enough on her own. It was nice to have someone else around who could, and did, pay attention to Ben. People who liked Ben just as he was.

Tomorrow, she'd suggest they move into the king-size bed in the master bedroom.


	8. It's a Terrible Life

Annette Braeden was efficient. Dean had to give her that.

He started work as a day laborer for Paul the Monday following her visit. Paul said it would allow them both to assess whether or not Dean had any aptitude, but really? It was probably because Paul was being forced to give Dean a job by his mother-in-law. The guy was allowed to be cautious.

Dean would've been offended, but it felt seriously weird getting up to an alarm, trying to coordinate one bathroom between three people trying to get ready for work or school. Add Cas in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and making them all lunches, and it was like he was suddenly living in a sitcom.

He didn't have tools, not for construction, but Paul had extra in his truck, so Dean swung and sawed and drilled with the best of them. He tried not to think of the times he'd used tools like these to do other things: killing vamps, digging out ghouls, hunting down and destroying all the night-crawling nasties.

Weird. And upsetting.

The crew was a mix of good guys, okay guys, one lazy-ass bastard, and one nasty son of a bitch, but he supposed it was a normal mix of personalities.

Some of them laughed at Paul and his Boy Scout tendencies when he wasn't around, but they mostly liked and respected him. They chose to show that by giving the expectant father his coffee in a baby bottle, or handing him a diaper to clean his tools with. The guy accepted the teasing okay, but Dean could tell he didn't really get it. Unlike Lisa, Paul had no sense of humor.

During breaks—and sometimes when they were supposed to be working—the crew talked. Mostly about sports and a bit about their lives. Enough that Dean learned when all their wives were either happy or unhappy, when their kids were good or in trouble, when their lives sucked or were okay. Big mortgages, short vacations, and new vehicles were cussed and discussed. Then work wasn't like a sitcom, but more like a boring-ass art-house drama where every minute is on film instead of skipping to the good bits.

Sam had liked those movies.

And thinking that reminded him that Sam was still down in the cage and he was up here pretending to be normal, and that was so, so wrong. That's when he would go find things to chop into pieces or chuck into the garbage bin. Simple physical work with an edge of destruction.

The guys learned not to bother Dean when he was in that mood. Most of them, anyway.

Bill would whine to anyone, anywhere, anytime—as long as there were no bosses around. He was the lazy one, and picked up the pace only when Paul was around. The rest of the time he was either stalling to get out of work, or he was whining about how hard the job was. Dean put his ear protectors on and pretended Bill didn't exist.

And then there was Hector.

Hector Padilla was a foul-mouthed, cruel little prick who was José's younger third-something once-removed. Hector swaggered and grabbed his crotch whenever he got a glimpse of a halfway decent looking woman.

Dean didn't know much Spanish, but he knew enough that the words coming out of Hector's mouth were filth. Every woman—_every_ woman—no matter what the age, was a whore or would become one.

Dean imagined Hector getting hold of Jo, or even Ellen, and wanted to castrate him, preventatively.

Unfortunately, Hector was a decent worker and the crew liked José, so they put up with him. Maybe they hoped he'd change, or somehow magically go away. Dean could've told them ignoring the demon in your midst didn't work. He'd put up with Ruby, even knowing he should've taken her out, and look what that had done.

Of course, Dean's tenuous relationship to Paul got out.

There were some sideways looks, a few nasty remarks from the previously identified SOBs, but mostly it was okay. Paul's biological brother worked for him. Jerry's nephew would be picking up some shifts once school was out. Phil's college-based son already was. José was related to Sid, one of the crew bosses, in some way Dean didn't bother to learn. And of course Hector was José's whatever, so Dean being with Lisa barely caused a ripple.

Nepotism was alive and well in the construction business.

Dean tried not to get sucked into any of it. He kept his mouth shut, his head down, got paid, and went back the next day and the day after. He drove to work in the truck Bobby had given him. He hammered and cut, and built up his own collection of tools, and tried not to feel like he was a shapeshifter in his own body.

Each night, Paul took him aside and told him if there'd be work for him the next day. Usually there was, but sometimes not.

The days he had off. He got in the Impala and took off to another one of Dad's storage lockers. Sometimes he found nothing worthwhile—he didn't need frag grenades—but sometimes there'd be books that he had never seen: hand-written journals, old manuscripts, even a couple vellum scrolls.

If they were short enough, and if they were in English, he read them on the spot. If not, he bundled them up and took them back to Indianapolis with him. Castiel may have lost his Grace, but he hadn't lost his knowledge of all the world's languages.

Dean also brought home other stuff from Dad's collections, charms, and protections mostly, but also gris-gris bags and amulets that would help protect the house from more mundane dangers like rats or termites, or plain bad luck.

Not that he much faith that he'd be able to avoid the last one. He was a Winchester, after all.

He never brought home anything like Matteuccia's notes, nothing that carried that deep sense of wrongness. If a book gave Dean a serious case of the grues, he sent it to Bobby. The old hunter's panic room wasn't the only heavily warded area in his salvage yard, and he had layer upon layer of protections to keep the nasty energies away from him and out of his home.

However, that didn't mean a residue couldn't develop from the lesser stuff Dean brought back, so he and Cas set up a shelf in the basement. They cleansed the whole corner. They locked it and sealed it, and circled it with protections and sigils and wards. They made sure Ben and Lisa knew enough to not go near it and then Cas kept an eye on it.

In between all that he read, or he took notes when Cas translated, and after that he read some more. Finding Amelia and Claire, basic carpentry, removing a former archangel from his host body…

He'd done more reading in the past month than since before he got out of Hell, but so far, they'd found nothing. Cas tried to make him feel better by reminding him that his angel pals were also working on it.

It didn't help.

If Michael and Raphael were all about bringing Lucifer up no matter who else came along, Rachel and her crew were equally adamant that Lucifer shouldn't rise again, no matter who else got trapped down there with him.

Oh, they'd separate Sam from Lucifer if it was possible, but it wasn't their first priority meaning _Sam_ wasn't their first priority, and that was just unacceptable.

Still it was a better chance than they'd had before, even if they had to put up with flocks of angels showing up in Lisa's backyard occasionally.

He could also grudgingly admit that there were other benefits to having angels drop in and ask Cas for advice: Cas was doing much better than anyone—including Cas himself—had expected. Physically, it was almost like he still had some Grace left. Small cuts and burns disappeared practically as soon as they happened. Mentally and emotionally, Dean could see him regaining his confidence, his stability.

So he couldn't fly, so what? The angels who were left were coming to _him_, not some other dude. Every time one of the Garrison came to him to ask for guidance, Dean saw his friend stand a little taller, saw more of that lost look leave his eyes. He wasn't an angel, but he was becoming a leader.

It was Dean who was floundering. Unable to truly move forward the way he'd promised Sam, but unable to completely stop changing, either.

He still scanned the paper for signs of possible supernatural activity, but instead of hunting, he mowed the lawn. He read ways of binding souls, trapping demons, and finding doors to other planes of existence, but he sent the notes on to Bobby and changed the oil in Lisa's car.

What was that saying? Neither fish nor fowl?

And even his normal wasn't right, because he was sharing his bed with two other people because it was often the only reason he could sleep. He'd used his last fake credit card to buy a California King, so they wouldn't have to sleep on top of each other.

His last fake card and his last fraudulent purchase, because Bobby's contact had come through with the IDs.

They were things of beauty: birth certificates, school transcripts, even papers for his parents, as well as driver's license and Social Security card. There was even a short 'history' included. He was now 'David Dean Austin,' born in Wyoming, parents in Florida, brother in parts unknown, and he hated it.

It wasn't his name. It wasn't his life.

But it _was_ his life…

He spent his days working, and his evenings watching TV. He sat beside Ben, who was enthusiastic and funny, and he sat beside Cas, who was honest and inquisitive. And at night, he slept with both Cas and Lisa. Lisa, who was soft and warm and smelled good. They were all so frigging _kind_…

Sometimes Dean just wanted to run away from his fraudulent, fresh-smelling California-King. Wanted to run outside to sleep in the Impala, where the scents of leather and oil were the same ones he'd smelled for years. The smells that had soaked into his skin. The ones that had been and always would be, home.

This was one of those nights.

.o0o.

It hadn't even been anything special that set him off. It had been a standard Friday consisting of work, home, and gardening, followed by a take-out dinner and a movie. He hadn't seen a ghost. No angels had come to visit. There'd been nothing that had reminded him of Sammy.

Lisa had asked if he'd taught Cas to drive.

"In the Impala?" he'd asked in disbelief.

She'd only nodded, a small smile playing around her lips.

"In my car," he'd repeated.

Lisa had smiled at him, practically laughing. "You act like I'd just asked you to sacrifice forty virgins. Don't worry. I'll arrange for him to get proper driving lessons. _In my car_."

Cas had said something about it not being necessary, but by that time Dean had lost interest in the conversation and the movie, and being around them, because as stupid as it was to be so attached to the Impala, it wasn't just a car.

He and Sammy had grown up in the Impala. They'd played in it, slept in it, and gotten laid in it. They'd been sick and injured, and they been dead in it. It had been their home for longer than most people lived in the ones that didn't move. Hell, when he'd rebuilt her, he put back the Legos Sammy had stuffed into the back vent. And he'd made sure the little green army man was still secure in the back ashtray, because it was all he had left of his family.

And that's when it had hit him: he hadn't thought of Sam once that day. Not once.

What kind of crap person was he? That he'd forget so _easily_?

Just over a month. Ten years in Hell-maybe more if time moved differently where Sam was, which it totally could because it was _Hell_.

He'd left them arguing between pizza and Thai, and closed the bathroom door firmly behind him. He'd stripped, carefully not looking at his lazy-ass self in the big mirror, and stepped into the tub.

The water had been hot, which was what he'd wanted, but all Lisa's scrubbers were too soft. They "exfoliated". They didn't scour, and he hadn't felt clean after using them, no matter how hard he'd pressed. Eventually, he'd given up, but he still hadn't felt up to joining them so he'd walking into "their" room and sat down on "their" bed, and tried not to feel… anything.

The bed dipped. Lisa sat down right beside him. When his arm got warm, he realized he hadn't dressed. He was still wearing just the towel.

"So what happened?" she asked gently. "I thought it was 'a good day'."

He didn't dare look at her. He didn't deserve to look at her. He was a lousy excuse for a human being and an even worse excuse for a big brother.

"Did you need a time-out?"

The second week they'd been here, Lisa had talked to them about dealing with PTSD, about ways to make it easier for her and Ben to know when they could ask questions and bother them, and when they needed to back off. She'd used the phrase 'time-out' and Dean had felt like sneering. It made him and Cas sound like misbehaving six-year-olds. But she'd insisted, and he'd finally agreed. After all, they were living in her house.

And it worked when they remembered to use it, but they generally saved it for when things were really bad, like 'feel like breaking someone's bones' bad

"Nah, I'm… I'm dealing."

She nodded, letting his obvious lie slide. "I'll put on some music." Code for 'I won't make you talk about it.'

"You listen to crap," he protested.

"At least it's classic crap," she replied. "I _could_ play you some of Ben's crap."In the past two years Ben had somehow started listening to modern music. Some of it was okay, but most of it was... garbage.

Dean tried to pick up the familiar argument-was classic crap better than modern crap-but he couldn't.

Lisa didn't call him on it. Instead, the space filled with a soft female voice singing a song about loneliness and surviving the night, and Dean tried not to feel even more exposed and fragile.

She sat back down beside him. "Are you cold?" A delicate hand wrapped around his bicep. "Yes, you are." She caught him up in a sideways hug, rubbing her arms over the parts of him she could reach. Considering how hot her hand felt against his skin, he figured he'd been damn cold.

The song was nearly done before Dean managed to say anything. "I miss him."

"You always miss Sam," Lisa replied. "Why's today special?"

Dean chewed on his lip, giving himself some time so that when he answered his voice would be steady. "It's been a month," he finally said. "Thirty days. And I haven't…" His voice failed him, shaking and fading out.

"You haven't rescued him," she finished softly.

"He never stopped looking, you know?" He turned his head to look at her. "When the Trickster really killed me on the Wednesday, Sam never stopped looking for a way to bring me back. Day and night. Single-minded purpose."

At least that's what Sam had told him. Not directly, of course, but Dean knew Sammy-Speak and he'd figured it out.

"And you think that's what you should be doing? Becoming obsessive and manic?"

Dean shrugged.

"It wouldn't be healthy, Dean," Lisa said. "It wouldn't be normal. Like you said Sam wanted for you."

A harsh laugh forced its way out of Dean's chest. So scratchy and vile, its escape made his throat hurt. "I'm not normal," he said.

Lisa said nothing. She waited. She had the same kind of patience Sam had had. That he _did_ have. He'd lost it with Ruby, but he'd been getting it back. Sam had been his Sammy again. And then he was gone. Again.

That feeling was building inside him. The tight chest, prickly eyes—the water balloon in his brain, putting pressure on all of him. Lisa gave him a soft kiss on his shoulder, and it burst. He coughed, gasped, but couldn't stop himself from admitting the truth: "I'm not even sure I'm _human_ anymore."

"Oh, Dean. Of course, you're human," she said. "You've just been put through five lifetimes of the strangest, meanest, weirdest crap—even Stephen King couldn't come up with the stuff the angels put you through."

It was kind of reassuring, but he wasn't ready for that. Didn't want it.

Water was leaking from his eyes. He didn't want that either, but he wasn't getting what he wanted tonight because Lisa was still here instead of someplace safe, Sam was still down below instead of someplace safe, and he was still crying.

Not just crying, either. Fucking sobbing like a kid finding out Santa was a hoax. A big, fat lie just like 'everything will be okay' and 'God cares'.

He cried, chest heaving, until his ribs hurt and his stomach ached. He couldn't stop it.

He cried until he could hardly breathe from all the snot building up in his head—as if he weren't disgusting enough already. Lisa didn't seem to notice. She continued to hold him tucked under her chin. She rubbed his arms and back, and made soft, soothing sounds as she rocked gently. It took forever for him to get himself back under control.

People said crying was supposed to make you feel better—releasing emotions or endorphins or shit—but all Dean felt was embarrassed. He hadn't cried like that in… ever. Not even when he confessed to Sam about what he'd done in Hell. And Lisa wasn't Sam.

"Here," she held out a Kleenex.

Dean blew his nose and wished it was a beer instead. Or maybe a fifth of Jack.

"Do you feel better?" she asked and it made Dean laugh. Her return smile was a small thing. "I'll take that as a 'no'. Do you want to go to sleep?"

Dean looked at her, at her warm, soft eyes, and her warm, wide mouth. If he couldn't have alcohol, then there were other distractions that worked nearly as well. But Lisa was off-limits, of course.

"I think sleeping's the last thing I want."

Her lips rounded in surprise, and Dean could understand that. He hadn't meant to say it—ever—but it was out there now, so he rushed on. "I know we haven't talked about it, and I know it's a big step. And I know it could become awkward considering this thing we do. The three of us sleeping together," he clarified. "But can we, just for tonight, set all that aside, and just be two people, two humans, coming together to just… be alive?"

She looked him in the eyes and he forced himself not to look away. "I can't do this unless I _do_ get a promise," she said and Dean's stomach twisted. He couldn't promise forever, he couldn't.

"That you'll be in the house tomorrow morning when I wake up. That you won't freak out and take off without speaking to me—or to Castiel." She was still looking at him. "That you will at least try to believe that you're not a monster."

He snorted. "I'm fucked up."

"Yeah, well," she shrugged. "You basically just saved the world. I kind of expected you to have a couple of issues."

That got a bigger snort from Dean, but this time it was tinged with real humor. "I have a cartload."

"I have a strong back, and I know my limits," she returned. Then she leaned forward, eyes still firmly on his, and he knew she was going to kiss him.

He drew back. She lifted an eyebrow in surprise.

"What about Cas?" he asked.

"He's playing _Dynasty Warriors_ with Ben. They'll be a while," she said with a smirk.

Her gaze dropped to his lips and he couldn't help licking them. He felt so fucking nervous it was bizarre.

Then she was kissing him, soft and slow, nibbling along the edge of his mouth. For a second, he didn't know how to respond. He just let her lick and nip. He hadn't kissed anyone, not _kissed_, not just for pleasure, since Pamela, and she'd been dead so did that even count? Before that, he'd kissed Jo good-bye, which was a memory that definitely didn't belong here. There'd been the girl at the insane asylum, who they'd thought was a wraith. That had been a decent kiss.

She'd kissed Sam, too.

"You're thinking too hard," Lisa murmured.

She was right. Didn't fucking help any—his heart was still pounding like a jackhammer, but at least it got him unstuck. He tilted his head so their mouths lined up better, and then he poked his tongue out—just a little. Just enough so that he could taste her lips, get them a bit wet.

She hummed her approval, and the tip of her tongue came out to play.

Soon they were full on frenching. He sucked on her tongue; she ran sharp teeth gently over his, and he was the one humming. They had to stop every couple minutes so he could breath—his sinuses were still freaking stuffed. Lisa didn't seem to care. While he sat there, panting for breath, she coasted over his face, exploring his cheeks, his eyes, his chin. He had an odd flash of déjà vu: Lisa had done this same thing all those years ago.

"You're thinking again," she said with a smile. Then she pushed him over and started on his neck, finding and exploiting the sensitive spot just under his ear. She sucked at it and sent shivers chasing each other over his skin.

From neck to shoulder to pecs to belly, with lips and hair and fingers, Lisa moved over his body. He tried to take control, or at least participate equally, but she just chuckled and told him to relax. "I like having you laid out for me like this." So, aside from shifting up on the bed and taking off his towel, all he did was stroke where and when he could.

It was weird. Like he was a gift she was exploring.

When she stood up to take off her clothes, all he did was watch her, watch as that soft golden skin was revealed inch by inch. There wasn't much light, just the small one they used to navigate by, but it was enough to give Lisa's body sleek highlights. There were muscles under that skin, a toned strength that drew Dean in with all it represented.

He expected her to pick up where she'd left off—at his belly. His dick certainly liked the idea that it was next on the menu, but she started at his toes, rubbing, massaging, and yes, kissing, and even licking. It startled him into speaking. "You don't–" He tried to pull his foot away but she held on. "It's my fucking _foot_," he explained.

She just chuckled. "You just got out of the shower. It should be clean enough."

She pressed this one spot close to the arch, and sparks raced through his nerves. Not pain, not quite pleasure, but something that made him extremely aware of all the nerves sitting just under his skin. When she followed up with her lips and her fingers—using her short nails ruthlessly—he'd had to cover his mouth with his hand to stop the sounds from escaping.

"Feel good?" she murmured.

Dean groaned as quietly as he could manage.

Her soft chuckle blew over the hairs on his calf, moving them over his already sensitive skin, and he couldn't stop the full-body twitch as more not-pain sparks ran through him, firing up his skin, quickening his breath, and increasing his cock's insistence that it was ready now.

Dean knew from his time with Alistair that the body's nervous system was connected—drive a spike in _here_ and feel it _there_—but he hadn't known that it worked for softer sensations.

Not until Lisa taught him.

Alistair had shredded tendons, Lisa massaged them. Nerve bundles he'd once exploited, she caressed. Legs, stomach, arms, chest, shoulders—nothing got missed. It felt an awful lot like being worshipped, and if it hadn't felt so fucking wonderful, he'd have been uncomfortable as hell. All the bad-ugly-evil things Alistair'd done to him, and that he'd turned around and done to somebody else, Lisa turned back around until there was only her: her scent, her voice, her touch. For a moment, when she first rolled the condom down over his erection, it was just one more sensation building on all the others.

A sharp spear of desire woke him up to how far they'd progressed.

He opened his mouth, thinking that he'd whisper her name, but it wasn't a whisper that started to emerge.

"Shhh." She leaned over and covered his mouth with her own. "This is gonna be good."

She slid down over him, warm and tight. If it had been a while for him, it had been even longer for her. She was snug and wet, and it felt so good just to have her wrapped around him. Then she started to move, slow but sure, and it was all Dean could do not to shout.

Why hadn't they done this before?

He ran his hands down over her body, touching shoulder to hip and everything in between. He ran his left hand back up until he could cup her cheek—tell her without words how much he appreciated this. His right hand stayed down low, fingers on hip and his thumb right on her sweet spot, pressing, rubbing, trying to catch and enhance the rhythm she'd set. He must've done okay because soon it was Lisa who was trying not to be loud.

He didn't close his eyes, he couldn't. He watched the soft light on her curves grow more pronounced as a sheen of sweat covered her. He watched her face as she focused more and more on her body and what was happening between them.

Christ, he wanted to cum!

He didn't. He panted, and chanted, and clung to his control by a hair. Waiting, waiting, _waiting_ until she went over first.

"Dean!" she warned.

"That's it! That's it, Lisa. Do it!"

Then she did, and it was freaking wonderful. The noise she made was indescribable. She didn't stop moving, but now it was more like stretching than moving.

And then she stopped.

And turned her head to the door.

.o0o.

"Castiel," Lisa said. She was too relaxed to be surprised at seeing him there.

Cas stood frozen in the doorway. The lights behind him were out. "I am sorry, but Ben grew tired and I thought you'd be finished. And I am also tired and was therefore inattentive… I didn't hear you."

He was rambling, Lisa thought and smiled. It wasn't often the former angel lost his composure and she liked it. "It's okay," she responded. She held out her hand, "Come join us."

Beneath her, Dean made some indescribable choking noise. When she looked at him, his eyes were wide in either disbelief or terror, she couldn't tell which. And he was going soft inside her.

Didn't matter—she was feeling sated and happy, and she wanted to share that feeling with both her guys. She'd get Dean back on board. She started by kissing him, teasing his lips and his tongue. She'd had dreams where kissing him had been the main feature, but she'd thought her memories had made it better than it actually had been.

They hadn't.

She rocked her hips, slight movements barely more than flexing her pelvic muscles, but it was working. When Dean perked back up, Lisa straightened, dragging her teeth lightly over his bottom lip.

She turned back to Castiel. "Did you want to join us?" she asked again.

"I…" his voice dragged to a stop. She could see the tent in his loose pants, so his body was interested.

"Have you ever?" She waved a hand over her and Dean. Castiel shook his head.

"Will it change anything for you, with your angel friends?"

'Jeezus!" Dean moaned, throwing an arm over his face. "Can we not talk about angels and all the biblical stuff while we're, you know, _fucking_?"

She laughed: Dean was a prude? Just for that, she had to lick over his blood-flushed cheeks. A quick swipe, with the tip of her tongue, before she sat up and put her hand out to Castiel again.

"It's up to you," she said warmly. "But I'd like you to join us."

Castiel swallowed. "I'd like that. It was… You are beautiful."

She smiled as he took her hand and let himself be drawn in. "In many areas, where the godhead is a couple, making love is considered an act of worship."

"I know."

"Good."

She kept up her rhythmic flexing around Dean while she unbuttoned Castiel's shirt, twisting to kiss the flesh she exposed.

"Do you have any diseases I should know about?" she asked moved down his body. "I'm clean, and Dean's wearing a condom."

"He just exited the shower. Of course, he's clean," Castiel said in confusion.

"She means STDs, man. HIV or herpes, or that kind of shit," Dean explained in a rough voice. "I haven't been tested recently, so I'm wearing a condom."

"Oh." Castiel frowned. "Exposure to an angel's Grace would have eradicated any pre-existing disease, and preventing this body from acquiring any new ones."

"Cool," she whispered. She hated the taste of condoms, even the flavored ones, but she'd do it if she had to.

Castiel wasn't finished. "Likewise, Dean's body would have been scoured of any infections when he killed Zachariah."

Dean moved his hand away from his face. "Seriously?"

Castiel nodded. "Indeed. Exposure to Grace, whether internally as a vessel, or externally as a Witness, cleans out all impurities. It is why the demons were driven from their hosts when Anna reclaimed her Grace."

"Huh," Dean grunted.

He actually sounded interested, so Lisa figured it was time to stop the philosophy and restart the sex. "Cool! That means, I can do this bareback."

She smiled up at Castiel, giving his belly a little nip and lick, before she carefully, slowly, unzipped his pants, and carefully, gently, pulled both pants and underwear down to expose his erection.

She didn't need Dean's muttered "oh shit" to know he was back with the program—she felt his penis jerk inside her.

She swallowed Cas down.

"Jesus Christ!" Dean's hips bucked up.

"Don't blaspheme." Castiel's voice was broken and thin, and totally without authority.

She sucked gently. He whined. She did it again, and he put his hands on her head and gripped, pulling her hair and locking her in place. It hurt so she reached up and tried to pry one of his hands off.

"Cas, man, let go." Dean said. "She can't move."

"I," his voice cracked. "I don't know. I don't…"

"Grab her shoulder," Dean instructed. "That's it. Give your other hand to me."

She pulled off so she could take a proper breath. "Thanks."

"Not needed," Dean said. "It's fucking hot." He was back at full strength and stroking hard. She gave Dean a quick kiss then turned back to Castiel. She gave him a nudge on the hip so he'd shift over a little, and then she went back to work.

Lisa didn't love giving head. She didn't get off on the flavors or the textures like some people did, but she did enjoy giving her partners pleasure, listening to the sounds they made, the little hitches in their breathing. Making love was all about sharing pleasure and since most guys like to get blown, and it didn't make her gag or anything, Lisa had learned to be good at it.

Because of that, it really didn't take long at all. Some strong tongue action, a couple hard sucks, a light touch on his balls, and Castiel was done. He didn't bother being quiet.

"Jesus, Cas!" Dean grabbed her hips, stilling them, and thrust up—once, twice—before he tensed and exploded.

Castiel's knees were giving way, so Lisa pulled him forward onto the bed. She rocked Dean through his aftershocks, letting him come down gently, and placed a firm hand on Castiel's chest, keeping him grounded.

When it was over—truly over—she let herself collapse into the guys' combined heat. It felt wonderful on her sweat-cooled skin.

"It is almost like receiving Revelation," the former angel finally said. "Very similar sensations."

"Is that a good thing?" Lisa asked.

Castiel hummed. "It is when we are closest to God, or at least divine power."

"So it could be a form of worship," Lisa said.

"Or used as a substitute for finding true enlightenment with God."

"It's a practical demonstration," Lisa countered. "It shows us what is possible to attain."

Dean wiggled out from under her. "You guys are geeking out over sex? Seriously?"

Lisa giggled, too relaxed to care. "Guess so." Her words were slurred. She didn't care about that either.

"It is my first experience with an orgasm caused by someone other than myself," Castiel answered studiously. "I did not expect it to be so different."

"Better diff'rent?" Lisa asked.

"Infinitely."

"Good," she said happily.

If Dean had anything else to say, Lisa didn't hear it. Instead she slid into boneless, formless sleep.

.o0o.

Despite his promise to Lisa, Dean was freaking out.

It was barely light out, and he was lying in their big bed, barely awake but starting to remember the night before, realizing that he was indeed sandwiched between the naked bodies of his two best friends (outside of his brother and Bobby). The thought of jumping out of bed and running away because he'd probably ruined this too, was growing in appeal.

Five more minutes and he would've done it, too. Climbed over Cas or Lisa (and how had he ended up as the meat in the sandwich?), grabbed his pants, and made a run for the Impala like the emotional coward he knew he was.

Except Ben knocked on the almost closed door and walked in. The kid's gaze flicked over the pile of sheet-covered bodies without reaction.

Well, why would Ben freak out? Dean asked himself. It's not like the kid hasn't gotten used to him and Cas in bed with his mother. Why would he think there was anything different about this morning?

He wouldn't know that the three of them had become one big sweating, groaning pile in the middle of the night, because Cas had been anxious to recreate his first orgasm and Lisa had been equally enthusiastic, and Dean hadn't been able to keep his mouth shut about not putting all your weight on your female partner, so he'd ended up under Lisa again, but she'd been on her hands and knees blowing him, while Cas took her from behind.

Yeah. Ben didn't need to know that.

"I was thinking pancakes and sausage," Ben said.

"What kind of pancakes?" Lisa asked from under her covers.

"Banana."

That made Dean sit up. "Dude, you can't add banana to pancakes."

"Sure you can," Ben replied, baffled. "It's a fruit like apples or blueberries."

True, but not the point. "Why would you want to?"

"Cause then Mom serves them with ice cream."

"Chocolate or vanilla?" Cas asked from his side of the bed.

Ben sat down next to the former angel. "I like chocolate, but Mom always choses vanilla."

"Not always," Dean muttered under his breath. He could feel sweat-salt on his skin and spots of dried cum. Shit.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair, and gave his face a good rubbing. This wasn't going to work. He couldn't do this. He wasn't planning on staying.

"We can have banana," Lisa said. "Why don't you go out and get the ingredients ready."

"Cool!" Ben grinned. He hopped up from the bed and bounced over to the door. Dean let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding—they were in the clear. Ben need never know what he and Cas had done to his mother. With his mother. What she'd done to them.

Then Ben paused, and looked back. "You guys are going to come to my game, right?"

"Which game?" Dean asked.

"It is baseball today," Cas answered. He was sitting up, ready to throw back the sheet at any moment. Dean threw his arm out to pin the clueless ex-angel in place.

"Baseball, huh?" Dean said. "Of course we're gonna be there. Have to see if our practices have helped any, right?"

Ben rolled his eyes. "You know they have."

"Right, so I guess we're going to a baseball game this afternoon," Lisa said, yawning.

Dean realized he hadn't hit Dad's storage in Bellingham. Maybe he'd make the trip this weekend. They could do the family thing without him.

.o0o.

He went to the game.

In the face of Ben's happiness and Lisa's expectation—Hell, even Cas had been looking forward to it—Dean had abandoned his idea of driving to Washington State.

And maybe never coming back.

Now he was maneuvering past a row of parents, repeating "Excuse me" endlessly and trying not to step on anyone's foot while balancing a bag of popcorn and three drinks. Non-alcoholic drinks, at that.

He ignored the curious sideways glances he was getting—that they all were getting. He ignored the overheard whispers about how they all shared a bed, because it was true. They did all sleep in the same bed. And now they'd done more than sleep.

_Shit_…

He passed round the drinks and took his spot beside Cas. Cas would keep his attention on Ben because that's why they were here. He'd maybe ask some questions about the rules, but that would be it, and if Cas did that, then maybe Dean would be able to get through the game without driving to Washington.

Ben did pretty good at second base. He threw wild only half as much as he'd done before Dean had started working with him.

Dean said hello to the parents he'd met at practices, and the people he knew from work or around the neighborhood. They looked at him and Lisa and Cas, assessing looks, wondering looks, and Dean was reminded that the rumor mill had had them in a three-way almost since the day he and Cas had moved in.

It bothered him.

It hadn't before. Before, he would've sneered at them and their judgmental minds. He would've shrugged and laughed. He could've done that, because it hadn't been true. Now, however, it was true.

It didn't have to be.

Not again, at least. Last night could be put behind them like it never happened.

Which was a lot easier decision to make in the daylight, surrounded by moms and dads cheering on their ten-year-old kids in a park.

It was a lot harder when night fell, and there was just the three of them, and Cas was so curious and fucking _grateful_ to share this with them, and Lisa was warm and soft and accepting. Dean couldn't have not participated, not when it was obvious from their comments that Cas needed to be shown, and it wasn't long after that, that Dean forgot that he was just demonstrating, not participating.

It wasn't until after, when they were laying in a sweaty, panting mass, that reality crashed down on him, and he remembered that he didn't deserve this.

He didn't pull away, or storm out, or any dick move like that—Lisa and Cas hadn't done anything wrong—but he lectured himself on his duties and his responsibilities, and swore that tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow, he'd say no and go watch Avatar with Ben. After all, it had half-naked, blue-skinned chicks. How could it not be a winner?

He would totally resist this tomorrow…


	9. What Is and What Should Never Be

"You should come to the barbeque."

Dean dragged his mind out of the book of spells written in Middle French that he'd left at home. He was translating it himself because Cas was bogged down in a Sanskrit parchment, and it was a real bitch of a job when his only French consisted of '_voulez-vous couchez avec moi.'_

"Dean!"

"Sorry, what?" he said, because Sid had obviously been speaking to him.

"I said, 'you should come to the barbeque'." Sid smiled. "All of you."

"All of me?" Dean asked

This time Sid laughed out loud. "Yeah, man," he laughed. "Your whole family unit. Ben, too. There'll be plenty of kids his age running around. Nancy's side of the family breeds like rabbits."

Dean held up his hand. "Wait. Your wife's name is Nancy?" A nod. "Sid and Nancy?" Dean asked again and got a chuckled confirmation. "How did I not know this?"

"My real name's Steve," the guy said with another smile. "I was the new kid in high school. Nancy was a bit of a rebel, but still, small town. Everyone knew her. So when we hooked up, it didn't take long for the other kids to start calling me 'Sid' to her Nancy."

"And it stuck."

"It sure did. But then, so did she so I've never regretted it."

Dean stared at the guy: regular looking, nice, normal; been with the same girl since high school, so ten years, maybe more; lived in Indiana all their lives, or maybe that was just Nancy. Had they got married and bought a house right after graduating? Probably. Probably still lived there, too.

It was like being surrounded by aliens.

"So are you going to come to the barbeque? Celebrate the summer solstice, or near enough."

"Isn't that a little pagan?" Dean had to ask.

"Any excuse to 'fire up the barbie', he said with an atrociously bad Australian accent. "It's a brand new one, too. Flamemaster 2000. 1200 BTUs, with a flush-mounted side burner and a rotisserie. We'll be throwing a whole chicken on that to try it out. And there'll be steaks, of course, and some of Nancy's grilled vegetables. Which even I think are okay. Nancy makes this sauce…"

Sid's hands were waving as he tried to describe how awesome it was. His enthusiasm was… Dean could remember feeling that way about food. It seemed like a long time ago.

"Nancy's sister is bringing her potato salad—totally to die for," he assured Dean. "José is bringing enchiladas. They're made with goat, but don't let that put you off. Little bites of heaven." Sid kissed his fingers.

It didn't look like Sid was going to shut up about it until Dean agreed. And he would agree, because this was part of what Sam had wanted for him.

"Okay, alright," he said with a small smile—the best he could do with the memory fresh in his head. "I'll talk to the others, and let you know tomorrow. Okay?"

Sid's answering smile was a lot less forced. "Okay. You won't regret it."

Yes, he would, he thought cynically. Some way, somehow, he probably would regret it, but Dean just smiled and let Sid ramble on.

'Is this apple pie enough for ya, little brother?'

.o0o.

"So we've been invited to a barbeque on Saturday," Dean announced at dinner.

"All of us?" Lisa asked.

"I thought a barbeque was a device for cooking food outdoors?"

Ben didn't say anything.

"Yes, all of us. Ben included," Dean answered Lisa. Ben scrunched his nose but kept eating.

"A barbeque is also when people get together to enjoy the food that's cooked on one of those devices," Lisa explained to Castiel. "Who invited us?"

"This guy, Sid—Steve, actually," Dean said. "From work. And his wife Nancy, I suppose."

"Oh yeah, I know them," Lisa said. "Nancy is Paul's cousin, second cousin. Something like that. We went to school together."

"He seems to think that we're all, you know," Dean waved his fork in a circle. "Together. In a relationship."

"Are we not?" Castiel asked with a small frown. "This house is too small to live separate lives, plus we have int–"

Lisa cut him off. "It's nobody's business what we do in our house, and speculation like that is both rude and hurtful."

Ben fumbled his fork and brought their attention to him. His face was down, and he'd hunched his shoulders as if he were trying to hide.

"Ben?" Lisa asked. "What is it?"

"Nuthin'."

Nothing? Dean didn't think so. "The stories that're going around at work; are they going around school, too?"

One shoulder lifted and fell. "Maybe."

That meant definitely. "How bad is it?" Did he need to go in there—or rather, did _Lisa_ need to go in there and talk to the staff. Because of course _Dean_ didn't have any standing at the school.

"Just a couple kids being stupid."

"Trash talking you, or your mom?" Dean asked.

"That makes a difference?" Castiel asked.

"No, it doesn't," Lisa answered firmly the same time Dean said, "Yeah, it does."

Lisa glared at him. He met her stare. Not challenging, but not backing down either.

Finally she huffed. "It _shouldn't_ make a difference, but Ben's more likely to take a swing at them if they're insulting me."

"'_Honor thy father and thy mother'_," Castiel commented. He was the only one still eating. "It does not generally include fisticuffs."

"It shouldn't include it now," Lisa pointed out. "Ben is not allowed to use violence except to defend himself–"

"Or others."

She nodded, allowed Dean's amendment. "–when in _immediate_ danger. Bullies and name-callers, aren't usually immediate dangers." Dean was going to comment on that but Lisa raised her finger. "Just hush," she said.

"Hush?" He couldn't help smiling.

She gave an exaggerated sniff and turned deliberately to Ben. "Tell me everything: what was said, who said it, how you responded—everything."

She was using her 'mom' voice, and even Dean knew better than to disobey. Cas never recognized it, but Lisa didn't use it on him, so it didn't matter. What mattered was that _Ben_ recognized it, so Ben told her everything.

It had started with a couple girls in his class talking, supposedly to each other, but making sure to talk loud enough for everyone around them—especially Ben—to hear. The girls gossiped, repeating stuff they'd heard, and speculating on the rest. That led to a couple of the older guys making comments about Lisa's looks, and her so-called morals—"so called" because she taught yoga and everybody knew "new age chicks were easy".

"I did what you told me," Ben defended himself. "I played it down: I agreed with them then I asked what their point was; trying to put it all back on them, you know? But they just got nasty and really crude." Ben's face turned red and Dean could imagine the kind of comments a couple ignorant boys would make.

"But then Ian came up, Ian Kane the quarterback, and he heard what they were saying. He laughed and said that any hetero guy with a heartbeat would want to 'tap that'—meaning you—but he said it in a nice way as if it would be, like, a treat," Ben added as it that helped. "And then he called them virgin nerds and everybody started laughing at _them _instead, so they took off."

Dean tried to keep his shoulders still and his laughter silent, but it was really, really _hard._

"They haven't bothered me since." Ben continued. "But Brooklyn and Lindsey and a couple of the others are saying how you're a sinner and you'll be going to hell." His voice rose and his breathing sped up in distress. "They think it's kind of a joke but it's not! I know what Dean looks like after he's been thinking about it, and Hell's not something to joke about, is it?"

That stopped Dean's silent laughter.

Ben's eyes were huge when they looked at his mother. "I don't want you to go to Hell, Mom. You won't, right?"

Lisa shifted her chair so that it was next to her son's and she hugged him close and made those soothing noises that parents everywhere used to calm down children in distress.

Dean tried not to feel envious of Lisa's son, but all of a sudden he could feel Hell's fire licking over his skin. Ever since that dick in Arkansas the memories had been closer to the surface.

He didn't want that image in his head—of Lisa in Hell, on a rack, because of him.

"Of course I'm not going to Hell," Lisa said confidently. "One, I don't believe in it; and two, like you said, I'm not doing anything to deserve it."

"They said their pastor said that you were. I mean, he didn't mention you by name or anything, but they knew who he was talking about."

Lisa glanced at Castiel, who was still calmly eating his very small bites. "You know, we have an expert on that stuff living with us."

Ben looked over at Castiel, too, and the former angel finally stopped chewing.

"Yes?" he said.

"Are those kids right?" Lisa asked. "Will I go to Hell for sharing a bed with you and Dean?"

"From what I remember, Father was utterly indifferent to most sexual practices." He paused ruminatively. "Though He didn't approve of intercourse with animals."

"But isn't it in the Bible?" Ben asked.

"There are many variations of conjugal structures in the Bible, depending on who wrote the passage and what the circumstances were." Castiel looked at Ben. "What did I tell you about the historical texts?"

"That they were written by people who… Who had their own ideas that… that added bias to what they wrote down?"

Castiel nodded. "Exactly."

"So, Mom's not going to Hell? Even though you guys are all having sex now?"

Dean and Lisa froze.

Cas casually speared his next bit of food. "I think it highly unlikely."

"Okay, well. That's, um, good to know… I guess." Lisa stammered in embarrassment. "Thank you for that, Castiel."

"You're welcome," the former angel replied solemnly.

Lisa cleared her throat and picked up her fork. "When and where for the barbeque, and does Sid want us to bring anything?" she asked brightly, and the topic of Hell slid away.

"Uh, Saturday at his house, I guess," Dean responded and received an exasperated huff in response. "I'll ask him tomorrow," he assured her. "We're all going?"

"Of course," Castiel answered. "It would impolite not to attend."

Dean sat back in his chair and tried to ignore the tightening in his stomach. It looked like they were going to a party.

.o0o.

"There is something I would ask of you."

"You are… doing laundry." Rachel's voice barely shifted, but Castiel heard it.

"You recognize it?" He folded Ben's jeans to cover his surprise, even as he looked at his Sister and maybe-friend.

"Yes." She frowned lightly, looking around the basement laundry area. "The smell… It is memorable." She stood erect and tidy in her plain, dark suit.

"Laundry detergent and dryer sheets," he replied. "Very pungent."

"Indeed." Her brow cleared and she turned back to face him. Castiel wondered once again who her vessel had been. What had the woman hoped to gain by saying yes?

"I doubt you asked me here to discuss clothing maintenance."

"No, I did not." He put the speculation out of his mind, because this was it. If he opened his mouth he would reveal a vulnerability. If Rachel was untrustworthy, or if she later turned on him, it would endanger not only him, but at least two innocent lives.

He leaned over the laundry table and gripped the corners. There was no point to his worry, he reassured himself. Since Dean had proven less proficient at searching for information than his brother, this was his best option.

With a deep breath, he pushed away from the table. He turned to face his former-companion, needing to read the smallest of changes in her expression.

"I have a request to make of you," he said.

Rachel somehow stood even straighter. "Of course. You need only ask."

"It is a personal request," he said. "Unrelated to the Garrison or the situation with the archangels."

"Anything, Castiel."

She wasn't lying.

"I would like to know the whereabouts of Amelia and Claire Novak."

Rachel frowned, a small expression that she quickly cleared. "Amelia and Claire Novak," she repeated.

"They are, or perhaps were, my vessel's immediate family. For obvious reasons, I did not keep in contact with them."

"The woman was possessed by a demon," Rachel clarified.

"Yes. They were to be hostages to ensure my cooperation." Castiel took another breath. "Can you confirm that they are, indeed, still alive?"

Pause. Rachel's gaze became unfocused and blank. "They live. Did you wish us to bring them to you?" she asked earnestly.

"No," Castiel instructed hastily. "That won't be necessary. However, an address would be most helpful."

She gave a small bow which was just a bend of the neck. "I will see to it."

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

Her loyalty, and that of the other angels, was a source of never-ending wonder. When he'd had his Grace, they had not trusted him so much. Then, he'd been one of many: named, but unimportant in the vast assemblage of angels. Now, when he was the least powerful he'd ever been, he had the most power he'd ever experienced.

Was it ironic, or merely sad?

.o0o.

Saturday arrived with greater rapidity than was logically possible. After all, seconds ticked over at the same preset rate, minutes went by, hours changed, and days passed all in their measured cadences. But Saturday still arrived too soon.

He was going to be among people.

Normal humans, with normal lives, and normal hopes and dreams.

He'd grown accustomed to meeting people at the grocery store, and he thought they'd grown accustomed to him. However, it had been a slow process started nearly a month ago when he'd taken over the household management. Dean and Lisa had applied for a credit card—a legitimate credit card—that Castiel used to purchase groceries. It was paid out of an account Lisa had made them open once Dean was working steadily.

He'd signed the papers as Castiel Novych, a young man with Russian ancestry.

And yes, Bobby had chosen the name for its resemblance to Novak.

The scenery passed; a seemingly random mixture of housing and countryside.

Dean cleared his throat. "Cas? I, um. I know you're relying on me to find Jimmy's family, but, I dunno, man. She's really covered her tracks. So, I'm kinda wondering if I could maybe get Bobby involved, or one of his contacts," Dean continued. "Somebody with a few more resources."

He'd forgotten to inform them that he'd asked Rachel to find Jimmy's family.

"I have asked Rachel to locate Claire and Amelia."

"What!" Dean says angrily. "Why'd you do that?"

"Because her resources are greater than ours, and time sets fewer limitations on an angel."

"What does that mean?" Ben asked.

Castiel turned to look at his young friend. "When not in their vessels, angels exist outside of most means of human measurement."

"That's really cool and all," Dean interrupted, "but I thought we'd agreed to keep the angels attention _away _from Jimmy's family."

"I made it a personal favor from Rachel," Castiel answered, keeping his voice calm even though Dean was treating him as a small child. "I believe she is trustworthy."

"Oh, sure. None of the other angels will decide to follow her, or take the Novaks hostage?" Dean said snidely. "I mean, you've been teaching them to think for themselves and everything."

"Teaching freedom of thought to angels is a bit like explaining poetry to fish," Castiel replied dryly. It made Lisa snort. Dean started to argue but Castiel kept talking. "They're soldiers, Dean. They weren't built for freedom, and so I believe that Rachel will adhere to the conditions of my request, which include not putting Claire or her mother in danger—from anything."

Dean opened his mouth, probably to lecture him further, but Lisa placed a hand on his arm. "Why hasn't she already found them?" she asked. "It can't be that difficult for her, right?"

"I told her that it wasn't of any great import, "Castiel explained. "She has many other functions–" she was coordinating the opposition to the Michael and Raphael in Heaven, for one. "But she will investigate eventually."

"So much for angels' time being infinite," Ben muttered.

Castiel looked down at Ben. It was a remarkably apt comment. If Claire and Amelia were still alive and themselves, then surely it shouldn't have taken Rachel two days to locate them, even given Heaven's upheaval.

Perhaps the angels _had_ found them, and decided they had a use for them.

Although not rare, vessels didn't fall out of the sky like rain. A proven vessel, such as Claire, would be even more desirable. And it wouldn't matter that she was still a child. It hadn't mattered to Castiel.

It would explain why Dean had had no luck in locating them, and why Rachel had not returned with any news.

Castiel's heart started to race and he felt a cold sweat break out over his body. He easily recognized the sensation as an extreme fear response. He initiated one of Lisa's body management techniques to rebalance his chemical levels. He was getting much better at it; it was only a couple seconds between response and control.

"You think they might have had something to do with Jimmy's family dropping off the face of the planet?" Dean asked. Dean knew him too well.

"It is a possibility I hadn't considered," Castiel admitted once he had settled his pulse.

"I'm sure they're fine," Lisa said soothingly but which somehow failed to soothe. "Rachel wouldn't keep that from you."

Castiel smiled at her, grateful for her concern, even as he tried not to think of all the ways he may have endangered Jimmy's family. He looked out the window at the passing scenery.

There wasn't enough distance between their house in Noblesville and the Sid's home in Carmel, so they arrived well before Castiel was ready to face anyone.

.o0o.

She could do this. She could.

It was no different from one of those awful fund-raising sessions the college put on.

Not that they were called that. 'Appreciation Dinners' is what they were labeled, but what the dean wanted was money: money for improvements, money for scholarships, money to lobby for an upgrade to a degree-granting institution, which would allow them to charge more tuition so they could upgrade, expand, etc., etc.

She thought of the report she'd assembled—with the meticulous charts and statistical analyses that Bobby had helped her set up—to prove that the college's physical therapy program was fine just the way it was. Castiel had double-checked her figures, and both Dean and Ben had said it looked impressive. It had impressed her two co-instructors into helping, and another five from other departments were now going to do the same thing. Plus, there were a couple more she'd talked to who might, with prodding, put something together. Hopefully, it would be enough to derail Dean Fuller's proposal.

They passed a two-story house with a balloon-decorated fence, and a sign that said "BBQ in BACK". Trucks took up all the space on the curb, so Dean had to go around the corner to find a parking spot. The engine grumbled as it shut down, but nobody opened their door.

She looked at him. "Are you ready for this?"

Dean grunted. "Are you?"

"I'm not," Ben piped up from the back. "I'd like to go home."

"We're not going home," Lisa said. "We're going to get out of this car as a family, and we're going to face those people in there as a family." Dean gave her a strange look but didn't argue, so Lisa took it as agreement.

When she stepped out of the car, Ben was looking at her hopefully, which confused her. Castiel was wearing his 'slightly confused but dealing with it' look that was his default expression in most situations. Dean just looked determined as he opened the trunk and let Castiel pull the salad out of the cooler.

They huddled together for a brief moment before she led the way past a back to the house with the balloons. At that point, she let Dean take the lead because he was the one who'd been invited. They were just tag-alongs.

They followed the path around the corner, two-story house on one side, and a high "good-neighbors" fence on the other. There was no sun, but bushes grew up and over the path. It was a dark and claustrophobic, and Lisa couldn't breathe.

She couldn't do this.

"There are a fair number of humans in the back area," Castiel said calmly. "But there are not any zombies, vampires, werewolves, or ghouls. In other words, there is nothing that will try to eat us."

"What about witches? If there are any witches there, we're turning around and going home right now." Dean was only half joking.

Lisa gave a shocked laugh even as her chest loosened. "Do you rate all your parties by how many monsters will be there?" Dean gave her a 'duh!' look.

Castiel had a far-away look. "No witches, angels, or demons. No altars or circles of power. Just a sauce that's a little heavy on the cumin."

Lisa couldn't stop a childish giggle from escaping.

"Wait." Dean held up his hand and they all had to stop. There wasn't enough room on the path to go around him. "You can sense that there aren't any nasties out there," he asked Castiel.

"Yes."

"Does that mean you're getting some of your mojo back?"

"I don't believe so," Castiel replied. "Rather that I have… an inherited sensitivity to the supernatural. It is not nearly as precise as when I had my Grace."

"So if there _were_ a demon in the crowd?"

"I would detect its presence, but not be able to tell you which human it was possessing."

"Could you, you know–" Dean slapped a palm to his head "–eject the demon from its host?"

"No."

Dean grunted and Lisa could sense the hunter in him filing that information away for possible future use.

"Guys, this is neither the time nor the place to be discussing Castiel's powers." She poked Dean and got him moving again, but he wasn't finished.

"So, if there was a demon here, would you call 'Angel 911'?"

"Would that be advisable?" Castiel asked innocently as they rounded the back corner and walked into a sunny backyard.

"Dean! My man! You came!"

"Hey, Sid," Dean answered. "I said we would."

Oh god… They'd arrived. Her stomach tightened back up.

"Neither zombies, vampires, werewolves, nor ghouls," Castiel murmured from behind her. It gave her courage enough to walk out into the sun.

Dean shook hands with a nice-looking man with sandy colored hair and sandy colored skin, who was dressed in tans and greens, which said he shopped at an outdoors-y store and liked to think of himself as a rugged type. However, the creases from being ironed argued against it.

Dean looked at her and pulled her forward. "Sid, this is Lisa Braeden."

Surprisingly, she actually half-remembered him from high school.

"Your guardian angel!" Sid said.

Lisa froze. "I'm not an angel."

Sid waved it away. "From what I hear, you're close enough. It's great to finally meet you."

He stuck out his hand and Lisa took it automatically. "Actually, we met in high school. Shared English class, I think."

"Wow!" he laughed. "I didn't think you'd remember."

"Oh well," she shrugged. "Kind of hard to forget you and Nancy."

He laughed some more. He'd been the same way in school, she remembered, always a smile and a laugh no matter what the situation. Even having his car stolen in the eleventh grade had only resulted in a rueful head shake and a statement of disbelief that anyone would want his old junker.

"This is Castiel," Dean waved the former angel over.

"It's nice to finally meet you!" Sid stuck out his hand.

Castiel looked at it before lifting his hand from the bowl of salad he carried. "The pleasure is mine."

"That salad looks great!" Sid turned to Lisa. "Did you make it?"

"I made it," Castiel announced with a frown. "Preparing and serving food is one of my responsibilities."

Sid's jaw dropped.

"Castiel's a great cook," Ben said belligerently.

Lisa gripped his shoulders and pulled him in front of her, warning him with a squeeze not to say another word. "This is my son, Ben."

Sid's smile returned—a little wobbly, but real. "Hi, Ben. I've heard a lot about you, too."

"Hi," Ben returned.

"So come on," Sid said with a wave of his hand. "Let me introduce you around."

"Where should I deposit the salad?" Castiel asked.

Sid blinked. "I'll show you. Yeah, because that must be heavy."

He turned, searched the crowd. "José!" he shouted. "Dean's here." José wasn't the only one who came over. A couple of guys from Dean's crew came with him and pressed beers on them while Sid took Castiel into the house.

Lisa smiled when she was introduced and tried to impress their names and faces into her memory, but they all said stuff like "so _you're_ Lisa" and "I've heard about _you_." It left her wondering what exactly they'd heard.

Then Nancy came up and exclaimed about "how long it's been" and "how good you look" and "can you believe it's been ten years?"

She dragged Lisa over to say hello to a couple other people she used to know: Jeannie and George, Dave and Debbie, Kris, Wendy and Maria—a blur of names and faces. She smiled until her cheeks hurt.

Ben followed her, of course, which meant he had to be introduced, and of course, he hated it. All the comments on how "handsome" he was, how much he "looked like his mother"… Nancy finally took pity on him and offered to take him to the Wii where the other kids were having some kind of bowling tournament.

"Mom?" He looked at her, silently asking permission.

She didn't want to let him go. He was solidity and familiarity, and protection from the worst of the gossiping.

Dean laughed from the other side of the yard. It wasn't his true laugh, but his 'I know I'm supposed to be amused' laugh. It made Lisa feel better, knowing that Dean wasn't comfortable either. Made her think that maybe everybody here was pretending to a certain extent, not just her.

She patted Ben's shoulder. "Go have fun, honey."

Then Lisa turned back to these people she'd once almost-knew and asked a couple of them what they were doing now. That should burn a couple hours.

.o0o.

"So were you a friend of Dean's first, or Lisa's?" their host asked as he led the way into the kitchen.

Castiel knew that humans were often curious about beginnings. As if being able to slot events into a mental timeline made them more understandable. He knew this. He didn't understand it.

"I was introduced to Dean first, but we were not friends. That happened later," Castiel answered. "My friendship with Lisa and Ben is a recent development."

"'A recent development'?" Steve echoed. "You're saying Dean introduced you."

"Yes."

"Was this before or after you moved in?"

Did it matter? Castiel wondered, since it would not affect this man in any way.

"I'm sorry!" Steve said with a laugh. "My wife says I'm unforgivably nosy."

Castiel said nothing as his only truthful option was to agree. Instead he concerned himself with making room for his salad in the already crowded refrigerator.

"So what is it you do?"

It was another intrusive question after he'd apologized for the previous one. Castiel decided that, like many humans, his host rarely listened to what he was saying.

"I look after the home," Castiel replied.

"You mean…"

"Cooking, cleaning, managing the finances, and maintaining the yard, yes."

Steve's laugh was a touch hesitant. "That's very, um, metro of you.

'Metro' was either a large urban center or the subway in Paris, France…

Since, the comment made no sense, Castiel kept his response neutral. "I find it satisfying."

Steve managed to keep quiet for nearly three paces. "So do you have any other interests? I mean, do you play the stock market or have a dot com company?"

This was where he was to use the cover story they'd prepared. "I am the chief operating officer for a large cloud-based organization."

"Oh really?" Steve looked back at him. "What does your company do?"

"We specialize in security."

"Cool! What's the name? Maybe I've heard of it."

"We do not advertise," Castiel responded repressively. "Our clients come strictly from personal referrals."

"So no mall cops, huh?" Steve teased awkwardly.

"Our specialty is more in the area of global security."

Steve opened his mouth—probably to ask another intrusive question—so Castiel asked one of his own. "Why do you allow yourself to be called 'Sid' when that is not your name?"

"What? Dean didn't tell you?" Steve asked in surprise. He then recounted (in great detail) the tale of how he and his wife formed their relationship. Castiel listened politely, nodding when it seemed appropriate, but mostly just let the man ramble.

'Deflection' Lisa had called it; to be used when he no longer desired to continue in the current topic of conversation. And it worked.

Maybe he was finally 'getting the hang' of being human.

.o0o.

"So that's Lisa," José said. "_Qué belleza."_

Hector, on José's other side, gave a low whistle and, unsurprisingly, grabbed his crotch while muttering a Spanish equivalent of 'I'd hit that'.

Dean ignored Hector and watched her go, one hand on Ben's shoulder, gently guiding and protecting. "Yeah, that's her."

"She got a sister?" José asked and Dean snorted. José's mama must have called again, asking about when she was going to get some grandchildren out of him. She called at least once a week, and José always reacted the same way.

"She's got one," Dean said. "But she's married to your boss."

"_Hijo de puta_," José cursed good-naturedly. "'Cuz that is one _fine_ looking woman."

"No wonder you're willing to share," Hector said, voice just a little ugly. "I thought you were a typical American _fresa_, unable to fight for your _chula_–"

Dean clenched his jaw. "Dude," he warned.

Hector continued anyway. "But now, I think it's because you're not enough man for her."

Dean's anger rose up his spine like freight train. Party or not, crowd or not, he wanted to pound Hector's face into the ground.

The crew surrounding them took a step back.

Before he could do it, José threw an arm over his shoulder. "Hector's right, man. A woman like that? She'd use you up and spit out the husk. Me, too," he admitted with a sad shake of his head.

"I could keep her satisfied," Hector leered.

The small group laughed and jeered at the brag, mocking Hector's supposed prowess unmercifully. It helped Dean back away from the edge, but Dean knew he couldn't let it slide. With the others in the crew, a comment like that would've been teasing. With Hector, it was a warning, a declaration of intent. Unfortunately, he couldn't start a fight at Sid's barbeque, either.

Dean took a breath and steadied himself. "I'll say this once." He lifted a finger. "Lisa is a lady, and is to be treated with respect. And I will personally twist the penis off any guy who forgets that." There were whistles and cheers from the crew, but Hector was unimpressed.

"I'm going to find Castiel. He's not so good with strangers," Dean said. He walked past Hector and very casually nailed him in the kidneys.

"Oh, man! Are you okay?" Dean said loudly. Dean steadied Hector as he bent over. He laid a solicitous hand on Hector's neck. And_ squeezed_. "Listen to me, you little shit," he whispered. "All it takes to get away with murder is a well-dug grave. And believe me, I'm a very good gravedigger."

He stood up. "I think maybe he's had too much to drink," Dean said to José. "Maybe he should go home."

José gave him a nervous look, but took Hector from Dean. "Maybe it would be a good idea."

Dean smiled. "I'm sure of it.

Dean knew Hector wouldn't be down long.

They'd warded the house against supernatural threats. Maybe it was time to prepare for more mundane ones.

.o0o.

There were forty-two people here: twenty-eight adults, four teenagers, and ten children. Twenty-three were males, nineteen were females—a statistic which didn't match the proportional average of North America.

Castiel had spoken to thirty-one of them.

They were, for the most part, average: average intelligence, average curiosity, average education and experience. Most had been born in or near Indianapolis. They had gone to school here. They had married, divorced, or been widowed here. Most would probably die here.

Ten of them would experience a violent sexual assault. Only six of them would report it, and most of those would be the female victims, not the men. Only one male would step forward and admit he'd been raped.

Ten of them would be the victims of a robbery. Nine would report it.

Sixteen would develop some form of cancer.

Twenty-three would get married, although most would live in a long-term partnership with someone at some point in their lives. Only one couple would stay together for fifty years.

Fifty years…

To an angel, it was an eye blink.

It was now the rest of his life.

The air fluttered. "Castiel."

"Rachel, you should not be here." Castiel continued to look at Lorne and Marie, sitting snug and happy beside each other. He had survived cancer. She had survived rape. She knew about the cancer. She had never told him about the rape, which had happened in high school before they'd met.

"Hey," Sid protested. "Where'd you…"

Rachel ignored him. "It is important."

Castiel forced his heart rate to remain steady. Human adrenal response was most annoying. He turned to look at his host. "Rachel is an associate of mine. I beg your indulgence."

"Yeah sure, but where the hell did she come from?" Sid's voice was puzzled.

"She has… elite ninja skills." A couple places down on the bench, Dean snorted beer out his nose.

"Excuse me," Castiel said even as he moved away with the angel. Rachel had the good sense not to speak of the matter until they were standing at the front of the house.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Unconfirmed reports suggest that Michael and Raphael have found Lucifer's cage."

"I see." The food he had eaten seemed to be crawling up his esophagus. He swallowed it back down.

"The same sources indicate that they have not yet devised a method for opening it. Most of the angels who support them are engaged in that task." She lifted her chin. "You were correct: it was a matter of 'when' not 'if'."

He nodded, accepting the acknowledgement. "Have we made any progress on our own task?"

"There have been some encouraging possibilities, but more research is needed."

"Of course," Castiel agreed. "Is there anything else?" News of Claire, perhaps…

But Rachel shook her head. She left as abruptly as she'd arrived. Only the sound of wings betrayed that she had been here.

Castiel looked up at the sky where the clouds were very white against the blue. There was traffic, but it was distant. The noise from overflying airplanes had been muted but steady all afternoon. Humans, living their lives.

Fifty years should be long enough for him to accept what he'd lost.

He returned to the amiable crowd in Sid's backyard. He neither saw nor heard the angels' return.

"You did not tell him?"

"There is nothing to tell." Rachel responded.

"You are uncertain of his reaction." Elemiah said.

"I am uncertain that it is possible," she replied. "Until the theory is verified, there is no benefit in telling him of our plans."

Elemiah's lips quirked gently up. "He has already proven more resilient than any of our superiors thought possible."

"This is different," she said before departing.

The other angel's smile grew. "They always say that."

Not even the wilted balloons fluttered as he left.

* * *

**MULTI-LAYERED SALAD**

**Base**:

1 head iceberg lettuce (or mixed greens)  
1 cup sliced celery  
6 hard-boiled eggs, sliced  
1 cup peas (garden fresh or cooked)  
½ cup bell pepper, chopped  
8 green onions, sliced  
1 can water chestnuts, sliced  
8 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled

Use a large, CLEAR bowl as this allows the layers to be seen. Tear lettuce into bite sized pieces and fill bottom of bowl. Add ingredients in order listed.

**Topping**:

1 cup mayonnaise  
1 cup sour cream  
2 tbsp sugar  
4 slices bacon, cooked and crumbled  
1 cup grated cheddar cheese

Combine mayonnaise, sour cream and sugar. Spread over top of salad, making sure to cover everything right up to the sides of the dish. Sprinkle cheese and bacon on top of salad. Completely cover the salad—NO HOLES. This seals it so the lettuce will remain crisp and the water chestnuts won't turn brown. Cover and refrigerate overnight then sit back and enjoy it the next day!

NOTE: Although it isn't as pretty, it's easier to serve if you use a 9x11 dish and cut into sections. Also, this makes _a lot_ of salad. Unless you're a fiend for the greens, save it for when you have a large group.


	10. Bedtime Stories

**AN**: For the next two weeks I'll be busy with film production stuff. (Production Coordinator on a crowd-sourced film called "Floating Away". Very cool!) It'll probably be a week or so after that before I post the next chapter, so I'm apologizing in advance for the delay.

* * *

"So did you have fun?" Dean asked Ben as they piled into the car.

"Yeah, Bobby was cool!"

Dean snickered. "He always is."

"He is not talking about the Bobby you know," Castiel pointed out.

Dean just looked at the former angel. "I'm aware of that. It was kind of a joke."

"Oh."

"Like it's a law, or something: A Bobby is always awesome because he _is_ a Bobby."

"Humor," Castiel said placidly. "It is a difficult concept."

Dean choked. "Did you… Did you just quote _Wrath of Khan_? You did, didn't you?" He had to laugh. He didn't miss Ben giving Cas a little fist bump in the back seat. "Man, that's awesome. Seriously."

"Are you okay to drive?" Lisa asked when he couldn't get his chuckling under control.

"Yeah, I'm good." And he was, surprisingly.

He'd stood beside Sid and José at the monster FlameMaster that was bigger than a kitchen stove. He'd watched them flip and baste and spray down the flames. "Being trained in the Ways of the Grill" Sid had said with great solemnity, as if they were initiating him into a secret club, which maybe they were. However, grilling on Sid's machine wasn't that different from the way Dad had cooked their supper over a fire-pit when they'd stayed in campgrounds instead of motels. He and Sammy roasting hot dogs on sticks they'd cut themselves.

Around him, Ben had taken over the conversation, describing in exhaustive detail, his Bobby's collection of Star Wars figurines and books and games. It was easy to let the kid fill the car with his enthusiasm, and Dean used him to cover the fact that he was no longer happy. In fact, he was feeling damn guilty.

He'd had a lot of fun today. Not just the surface fun he'd forced at Ben's baseball games, or even sitting around Lisa's dinner table. He'd had an honest-to-god good time.

Without Sam.

Oh sure, he'd thought of his brother, but only a couple times.

Sam would've loved the potato salad, or any of the other different kinds of salad. And the chicken had been good. Corn on the cob. Nancy's grilled vegetables had been okay; too much zucchini for Dean, but Sam would've loved them.

Even when they'd been kids, Sam had insisted on picking a mix of vegetables instead of just grabbing the easy carrots and peas. It wasn't that Dean disliked vegetables back then, or ever, not really, but that it was so much fun to tease Sam about being a rabbit. Which Dean was never going to be able to do again, because gardens didn't grow in Hell.

Dean could remember eating in Hell.

Not for the _taste_, of course. Nothing had any flavor in Hell. But eating things was a sign of dominance. Those that were powerful took bites out of those who weren't.

As Alistair's favored apprentice, Dean had been powerful. The only reason he hadn't become like Sam, with his demon-blood addiction, was because it hadn't been real. It looked good—dramatic and gory—but they'd been souls, not bodies. Souls didn't bleed real blood. Their bodies weren't made out of real meat…

Christ, if he didn't stop thinking about this he was going to be sick.

"What do you think?"

Dean dragged himself out of Hell. "Sorry, what?"

"Having some people over for a barbeque of our own," Lisa repeated.

"Sure, yeah," he agreed with an inward flinch, but this is what Sam had wanted for him: to have barbecues and go to football games, to live some normal, apple-pie life.

Right now, the apples were tasting pretty sour.

He followed them out of the car. He followed them into the house. He listened to them babble and be alive and he couldn't understand how he could enjoy this _when Sam wasn't here._

Jesus. What kind of brother was he?

"I'm… I'm gonna take a shower," Dean said, jerking his chin at the bathroom. He tried to keep his voice firm, but it shook a little anyway. "So, you know, use it if you need it."

Castiel shot him a concerned look but nobody objected, so he left to grab some clothes that didn't smell of cooked meat.

He couldn't look at them. He didn't want them to see him. What he was. What he'd done. What he was letting happen to Sam right now? How could Lisa have let him into her life—into _Ben's_ life? What kind of idiot was she?

She wasn't an idiot, he told his reflection. She was just a decent person with a big heart, who'd taken pity on a basket case when he'd needed someplace to implode in safety, but he wasn't as crazy-awful as he'd been two months ago.

He thought about the storage unit in Washington. Leave. Start over. Live on the road…

Dean grimaced. Not as happy with the idea as he'd once been.

He could go stay with Bobby, help him research. He could hunt, because that's what he was—a hunter. Not a construction worker. Not a soccer dad. He wasn't, and he wasn't ever gonna be, Mr. Joe Normal.

He was a killer, a torturer, and a conscienceless son of a bitch, and he didn't deserve to be happy.

.o0o.

Castiel watched Dean walk away, posture upset and closed, instead of the relaxed strength he'd shown at the barbeque.

He wondered at the cause, and hoped that it was merely because Dean had eaten too much. However, it was equally likely that he had seen Rachel appear and had been waiting for Castiel to explain her presence at the barbeque.

Castiel could justify his reticence by saying that a crowded gathering was hardly the appropriate place to discuss the discord in Heaven. Or he could just say nothing and hope that nobody asked him about it. Then he wouldn't have to explain the implications of Rachel news.

Especially when he, himself, wasn't sure what to think of it.

If his suspicions were correct, then Rachel and Elemiah were working to devise a way to forcibly return his Grace to him upon Lucifer's return. If that happened, Castiel would regain his status as an angel and the doors of Heaven would open for him once again. He did not believe they would be successful, but nevertheless, for the first time he allowed himself to contemplate the possibility that he would be an angel again.

He didn't know how to think about that, either.

A month ago, his response would have been predictable: elation and relief. He was an angel, after all, and he needed his Grace to be whole. Even two weeks ago, he would have eagerly awaited his tattered Grace's return. Now, however…

He missed being an angel, of course he did. Oddly enough, however, he didn't miss much else about the Garrison. The politics. The sameness. The endless patience as they waited for orders, wavelengths intermixed but never mingling…

He wasn't sure he could return to the lack of physicality. Not just the physical intimacies he shared with Lisa and Dean, but also standing next to Ben in the kitchen, preparing food that everyone would enjoy. He enjoyed Dean and Ben introducing him to 'male bonding'. He enjoyed sitting between the others on the couch—their bodies and their presences surrounding him with warmth. Touching him in ways that multi-dimensional wavelengths couldn't manage.

With his Grace, he could know God's love once again.

However, there was no guarantee that his Father would ever again participate in the events of the world He had created. Until then, Castiel would have to take God's love on Faith.

And he didn't have to be an angel to do that. Normal humans took God's existence on faith all the time and they weren't discouraged by the lack of response.

But Faith could not compare to receiving Revelation, he thought as he cleaned the salad bowl and set the dishwasher.

Except Michael and Raphael had manipulated Revelation for their own ends, twisting the Knowing away from the True Path. It hadn't contained their Father's instructions and guidance, just his brothers' plots and desires, as they treated the Sacred as a tool to achieve their ends. They had likely been profaning Revelation for centuries or even millennia.

Giving up the peaceful bliss of Revelation was the main regret he had about being Fallen, yet knowing what the archangels had done, could he ever trust Revelation again?

Lisa had taught him several meditation techniques that allowed him to achieve a state close to Revelation. In fact, it improved upon it, in that there was no authoritative entity forcing Purpose into him.

Rather, Lisa's gentle techniques engendered a quiet awareness of his Self as Castiel Novych, human male. Soft music, candlelight, and breathing… Simple, yet effective.

In many ways, it was far more pleasant than receiving Revelation had ever been even when God _had_ been overseeing it. It did not Raise him up and fill him with Purpose, but neither did it leave him incapable of thought because his very essence had been shaken and flayed before being reassembled.

He also didn't think he could blindly obey orders the way he had before he'd met the Winchesters.

Even with true Revelation and His Father's love as a reward, there would be a part of him always questioning, even challenging, the sagacity of his superiors. It would be… uncomfortable, for himself and for his Brethren. Millennia of routine would demand that he be disciplined as an example to the others, and yet Castiel knew that "Angel Boot Camp", as Dean had once called it, would not silence his doubts. Not anymore. Eventually, his superiors would have no other option than to force him into Hell.

For the first time, Castiel thought that being human wasn't the worst that could've happened to him.

He had good people to share his life with—his _finite_ life. One day he would be old, and he would no longer be interested in food or sex… or living. So he should probably make the most of it, while his body was young enough to enjoy it.

Which led to Castiel thinking of ways he would like to enjoy his body—and Lisa and Dean's. Which led to him back to wondering what had changed the hunter's mood so dramatically, and if Dean would even be interested in joining them.

He'd better be, Castiel thought with a frown.

Lisa came out of their bedroom and went to the fridge for some juice. She had changed into her sleeping attire, which in this heat, consisted only of a tank top and light, loose pants made of soft fabric. He watched as they clung to her legs as she moved, outlining and then hiding them. The tank top also molded to her body, showing him the weight and shape of her breasts. She was enticing to watch.

"Dean's taking a long shower," she said.

"Yes, he is," Castiel answered her absently. It occurred to him that it was time he acknowledged that he found her physical form attractive.

He often made general observations of the people he met. Impersonal, distanced, _non-sexual_ observations such as noting that pale colors were more suited to Lisa's skin tone. As an angel, it was another barrier that Grace erected. It allowed them to remain detached from God's other creations, so they could inflict Suffering on command. Castiel had been present when they had tormented Job, waiting patiently for God to order it to stop. He had waited, unmoved, just as the rest of the attending angels had been unmoved.

However, as a _human,_ he was allowed to… to _like_ what he saw.

So he looked at Lisa again, and this time, he looked at her as a human male looking at a human female.

Amelia had not been Jimmy's first sexual partner and marriage had not stopped the man from looking at other women. Castiel could access memories of Jimmy's opinions on a variety of females. The first thought that came forward was 'lips'. Jimmy had been attracted by lips—wide, full, and able to smile broadly.

Castiel looked at Lisa's lips. They were a lovely dusky rose color, and they were sculpted in an attractive way. He didn't have to rely on Jimmy's imagination to envision what they'd look stretched around his erection, because Lisa had done that, and it had both looked and felt as wonderful as Jimmy remembered. But Castiel also enjoyed the feel of them on other parts of his body—his neck, his chest, his thighs, and of course, his own lips. Soft and warm, tender or firm, they were always expressive.

Yes, Castiel decided, he definitely appreciated Lisa's lips.

Jimmy had also liked breasts, although unlike the models in Dean's magazines, Jimmy had preferred breasts of modest dimensions. "_Anything more than a handful is a waste_."

Lisa's breasts were, perhaps, slightly more than a handful—at least for him. Dean had larger hands, and could encompass more of them. It was not the abundance glorified in Dean's magazines, yet he had never seemed disappointed.

Perhaps, when not in a magazine, size was less of a factor than the feel?

Reviewing his experiences, comparing them to Jimmy's, Castiel was inclined to think size was not the primary attraction for him. The sounds Lisa made when they were caressed were quite stimulating. And there was a compounded response: her pleasure increased their pleasure, which made them want to increase her pleasure even more. It was an efficient and effective mechanism for increasing physical desire.

He looked at Lisa's body, covered yet revealed by the form-fitting bits of cloth. It made her look curved in a manner that Castiel knew most humans desired in their females.

_"Hips wide enough to cradle a man…"_

Castiel looked at Lisa's hips.

Castiel enjoyed watching Lisa when she was on top of Dean or himself, but it wasn't her hips as tangible objects. He did not find it especially arousing to hold them and force Lisa to alter her movements.

It was her undulations, and the way light played over her sweat-sheened body that he enjoyed. In fact, just the memory of it was enough to cause arousal, even with his hands in the sink rinsing dishes.

Perhaps it was because Lisa seemed so powerful, so in control of both herself and them in those moments. She was taking her pleasure, yet somehow sharing it with them. She was relaxed, and yet purposeful, strong, and yet vulnerable as she reached climax. Control and surrender. Duality. And trust.

Fascinating.

He had thought he knew what lust was after their nights together, but obviously he'd been wrong. This was a much softer, though no less compelling, sensation.

If his brethren succeeded in returning Castiel's Grace to him, then this feeling would be lost to him—lost behind the muffling force of his Grace. This quiet satisfaction and contentment when he looked at Lisa and knew that he would be next to her tonight. That he would see her again tomorrow. That they could talk or be silent. That she accepted him, and all his non-human ways.

That's why, when she went to move past him to the dining room table, he lifted a hand and stopped her.

She looked up at him questioningly.

"I would like to kiss you," he said. "If you don't mind the gesture out here where Ben could see?"

She gave a surprised laugh. "No, I don't mind. But what–"

"Shh," he stopped her before placing his lips on hers. He licked lightly and tasted the orange juice she was drinking. He sucked on her bottom lip as he withdrew.

She was looking at him, dazed and confused. "What–"

"You make me happy—being here, with you and Ben, makes me happy," he explained. "Thank you for taking me into your home."

Her smile was genuine, but no less confused. "You're welcome," she said. "And, just so you know, it was one of the better decisions I've made in my life."

Castiel felt his own smile wanting to break out and so he allowed it. "I'm honored you think so." Which he was. "Perhaps we could convince Ben to go upstairs for the rest of the night, or at least to use his headphones?" he suggested.

Lisa's smile grew. "We might be able to."

Castiel leaned forward to partake of a new kiss, just as Dean entered the kitchen.

"Whoa! Jesus, Cas. Whatchu doing?"

Castiel pulled away. "Don't blaspheme, and I am kissing Lisa as I find it enjoyable."

The former hunter shifted his weight. "Yeah, okay. I guess that's cool." Dean opened his mouth to say more, but Castiel beat him to it. "I have would like to go to bed early, as I wish us to be intimate."

Dean's reaction was startling. He actually backed away as if Castiel was holding a poisonous apple—and yes, Castiel chose the simile deliberately.

"You know, I could… stay. With Ben. If you two wanna," Dean said, making oddly aborted gestures towards the living room with his head and hands.

"That won't be necessary," Castiel informed him. "Ben is more than capable of knocking if he requires our assistance."

He stepped toward the living room. Dean moved to block his path. "What are you doing, man?"

"I am going to inform Ben that the three of us will be occupied," he explained. "Also, that it would be beneficial for him to use the headphones to block out whatever sounds we may make, whether or not he stays downstairs"

"Dude!" Dean protested. "You can't tell him that!"

Castiel looked at the hunter. Dean looked supremely uncomfortable, and once again, his face was flushed in embarrassment. Castiel tried to figure out why that would be, but couldn't. He tilted his head. "Why not?"

Dean shrugged. "It's just, could it be more obvious you're planning for us to… you know." The hunter waved a hand vaguely between them.

"You mean it's obvious I want the three of us to enjoy intercourse," Castiel confirmed.

_"Dude!_" Dean's protest was much louder this time, but it wasn't loud enough to cover Lisa's amused gasp of "Oh my god," and Castiel realized that this was one of those ill-defined human conventions regarding sex that he didn't understand—mostly because they seemed to be random and infinitely changeable.

"Ben is aware that the three of us are intimate," he pointed out. "He is probably more aware than he wants to be of what that entails physically, and he is certainly well aware of the attitudes of American society towards polyamorous relationships. However, he has indicated his support of us very clearly. He has braved the censure of his peers and his family members to do so. To not acknowledge what he already knows insults not only his bravery, but his intelligence," Castiel finished, voice calm yet stern.

Now, Dean was glowering at him. "Yeah, well. Maybe _I'm_ not ready to acknowledge it," he spat. "You ever think of that."

Castiel gave an internal sigh. Typical.

He wished that, upon rescuing Dean from Hell, he could've fixed Dean's self-esteem issues the same way he had healed the physical injuries. Then perhaps the hunter wouldn't feel so undeserving of happiness.

"Dean," Castiel said. "In many ways, you are the bravest man I have ever known, and I have been stationed on Earth for a very long time. However, when it comes to acknowledging your emotional needs, you are very much a coward."

It was enough to get the hunter moving. He stalked towards Castiel, threat in his posture and his glare as he whispered fiercely, "I am not a coward. I'm _cautious._"

This time Lisa held up her hands. "Please, let's not argue about this here." She looked towards the living room, where Ben was likely dozing in front of the TV. Dean followed her gaze then turned and marched into the bedroom.

"Dean!" Castiel called. They could talk outside. But Dean didn't halt, and the bedroom door crashed shut moments later.

It was possible, Castiel acknowledged to himself, that he had just ruined his chance to have intercourse tonight.

"I require a shower, anyways," Castiel said, and suited deed to words. He gave Lisa a quick kiss in passing because to stalk past, as Dean had done, would've been rude.

Lisa watched Castiel leave, going the same direction as Dean, but miles apart.

She swallowed down the sigh that wanted to emerge. Wishing for things to be different never actually changed anything. Instead she went into the living room to join her son. He didn't turn to look at her when she sat down beside him.

"Are you guys arguing?" he asked after a moment.

"Dean… just needs a time out," Lisa said.

"You're arguing," Ben repeated.

Lisa sighed. "I don't know what we're doing but we'll figure it out."

"By having sex?" he asked, but this time he wasn't looking at her; he was staring at the hands clenched on his thighs.

"No, by talking," she answered, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks. "Sex doesn't solve problems."

Ben stared at her, faintly accusing.

"If we can solve the problem, then there might be sex," she conceded. The statement didn't make her blush abate any.

"Do they make you happy?" he asked.

Lisa nearly flipped off an automatic 'of course', but she stopped and took the time to think about it. Gruff Dean who cared in practical ways—by looking after her car and repairing the railing around the back deck. Castiel who was learning to truly enjoy being human. Dean teased Castiel, and Castiel… was beginning to tease back. They surrounded her; a wall around her and Ben that said you're not facing this alone.

At least until Castiel got his Grace back and Dean got his brother.

She couldn't help sighing again.

"They _do_ make me happy," she said. "The thing is, I'm not sure how long they'll be here so I want to enjoy them while I can."

Ben straightened on the couch. "Whadya mean?"

"I told you about this," she reminded him. "Dean's trying to get Sam out of Hell, and if that happens, then they'll probably go back on the road."

"But Cas… He'll stay, right?"

"He'd be more than welcome to," she answered. "But he might not. He has another family out there, and then there's hunting…"

Ben stared at the TV, not seeing the action on the screen. "I don't want them to go," he said.

"I know, sweetie. Neither do I." Lisa ran her hand over his hair. "It may not happen, so…No point in borrowing trouble, right?"

Ben still didn't look at her, but he nodded. She waited, but he didn't seem ready to talk more, so she stood up, heading to the bedroom where some other emotional catastrophe was probably waiting for her. She reached the short hallway before Ben called to her.

"Tomorrow, we should take Cas to Baskin & Robbins," he said. "Check out some of those flavors they always brag about."

Lisa laughed and agreed. If ice cream could bribe Castiel—or Dean—into staying, she was all for it.

.o0o.

Dean let his anger carry him past his embarrassment and into the bedroom.

Who did Castiel think he was? Telling Dean _he_ was a coward, when it was the ass-kissing angel's fault they were here in the first place!

If Cas had just told them that Lilith was the final seal. Or if he'd told Zachariah to fuck off…

Dean stopped. He took a breath and unclenched his hands.

If Cas had told Zach to fuck off any time that year, he'd have been sent to angel re-indoctrination way earlier, and Zach would've just got some other angel to open the panic room door and let Sam out. Cas wouldn't have rescued Dean from that white, over-civilized prison, and Dean wouldn't have shown up at the convent in time to gank Ruby—which had been a useless gesture, but satisfying.

He stood, in the growing dark, and carefully didn't look at himself in the mirror.

"Dean," Lisa said, announcing her presence. His shoulders hitched defensively before he could control them. She took another step until she was at his side, but she still didn't try to touch him. "What happened?"

"Nothing," he responded on auto. He didn't need her quiet snort to know she wouldn't buy it.

"Something did, because when we left Sid's you looked and sounded pretty good. Now… Now you don't."

She was standing so close that Dean knew she would have noticed the quiet gasping breath he took, and the way his ribcage jerked out then in, as if his lungs weren't working right. He cursed fluently and silently as he worked to bring his body back under his control. He took a steadying breath…

She smelled like the barbeque.

Like summer and picnics and bug spray and _normal_. Water-fights and long nights, coated over with her favorite perfume and _her._

This time the hitching of his breath was loud.

"Dean?"

"He would've liked the barbeque," he squeezed out. "Sam would. I mean, it was exactly what TV says is a typical suburban barbeque, right? Even down to the embarrassing asshole relation who drinks too much and insults the guests."

She made some sound that could've been agreement. She'd never known Sam, not really, and couldn't really say what he would or wouldn't have enjoyed.

"Sam would've liked it," Dean repeated. He kept his eyes on the dresser, and the picture frame she'd encouraged him to put there. One side was his parents, both looking young and happy, and the other was them when they were kids, sitting with their dad on the Impala in some anonymous woods.

"So you're upset that you got a chance to enjoy that, a typical barbeque, and Sam didn't?"

"It's what he wanted for me, right? And I sat there, drinking a cold beer, eating grilled steak and homemade potato salad, having a good time, and not once—not _once_—did I think to myself 'Sammy should've been here for this'. What kind of brother does that make me? What kind of _person_?"

"If I say 'a normal one' will you get angry with me?"

Dean shot out a soft laugh. "Oh, babe. I haven't been 'normal' for years." He could've sounded bitter, but he didn't—just resigned.

Lisa seemed to take his statement as an indication that it was okay to touch him. She put a hand on his arm, not grabbing it, not confining, just there. "You're doing all that you can to rescue your brother, but you knew it wouldn't be simple, or even possible," she pointed out. "From what Castiel says, even the archangels are having problems, and they're… They're _arch_angels." She waved her arms a little in emphasis. "You're mortal, Dean, and essentially only human. Cut yourself some slack, and let yourself have one enjoyable day."

She stared at him, willing him to _listen_ to her

Dean heard her. He even tried to accept her words as relating to him, but he couldn't. Not really.

"Do you think I'm an emotional coward?" he blurted out then winced. Suburbia was taking away his manly bits or something.

He turned away from Lisa so he wouldn't see her roll her eyes or try to smother a laugh, which was what she probably was doing, but he knew her well enough not to startle when she gripped his shoulder.

"I think, you could do with a bucketful of psychiatric help," she answered. "But I also think the chances of you getting it are beyond microscopic. And the chance that you'll actually _ask _for that help are even smaller," she went on, proving that she knew him. "That doesn't mean your attitude is healthy. It is, unfortunately, typical."

Dean snorted again, this time in disagreement: like anybody else on the planet knew what he'd been through. But Lisa wasn't finished.

"Lots of people have problems believing they deserve to be happy, or successful, or loved. Even more people have problems accepting change, even when the change improves their lives somehow." He could feel her shrug. "It's stupid and damaging."

"But typical," Dean repeated.

"Yeah," Lisa said sadly. "It's pretty common."

"Did you?" he asked suddenly, finally looking at her. "Did you have problems believing you deserved to be happy?"

Lisa gave a sad chuckle. "You've met my mother."

"How did you deal with it?"

She smiled, "You mean how _do_ I deal with it—present tense. I deal with it the way most people do: I question myself constantly: my needs, my goals, my feelings. I re-examine my decisions constantly, and I read books that give me insight on why I make the decisions I do. But mostly, I get on with my life and don't let the crap stop me."

It sounded a lot like the way Dean dealt with things—the final part, at least.

It was probably why she'd been so cool about having a couple life-damaged men drop into her life, and how she'd managed to make him feel kinda okay about it. More okay than he should probably feel, actually.

Cas entered the room before Dean could say anything more. The former angel was carrying his clothes, and wearing a towel around his waist and nothing else. "Ben is now watching _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_ with his headphones on. I believe it is age appropriate."

"Yeah," Lisa smiled. "It's fine."

"Excellent. Then it is time." The former angel said, hands going to his waist. "I was thinking, while I was in the shower, that I would prefer to watch the two of you together, and then I would try to duplicate the techniques."

Dean's heart, which had just settled back to a normal tempo, accelerated back up again.

"You want us to demonstrate positions?" Lisa said. There was a suspicious hiccup in her voice, and sure enough, when Dean looked at her, she was trying to swallow down a laugh. "I don't think I've ever been ask to be someone's sex education video before."

"It would be most helpful," Cas confirmed calmly. "I have been doing some research in an attempt to broaden my knowledge and understanding, but the videos I found were lacking in instructions." He tilted his head, thinking. "Actually, there seemed to be very little verbal communication between the participants at any point. One would enter the room, and then they would begin to copulate."

"Hey, whoa, whoa! Just, whoa," Dean held up his hands. "You've been watching _porn?_"

"Sam once showed me how to use Google. The number of sites was impressive, and I found videos for a variety of specialized interests—" Lisa choked. "I did remember not to click on sites that required me to register or to pay money for bonus content," Cas finished earnestly.

"Jesus," Dean muttered.

"Don't blaspheme," Cas responded automatically. "I paid particular attention to those devoted to polyamory, as that's the situation we are in. I had not realized that there could be simultaneous penetrations, and I look forward to expanding my practical knowledge in this area. "

"'Simultaneous penetrations'," Lisa repeated, voice faint.

"Indeed. Most showed the female being penetrated by both her partners," Cas said calmly. "But occasionally, the male penetrating the female was himself penetrated by the second male. It was an interesting variation."

Dean waited for Lisa to shut Cas down, but she didn't. She didn't say anything.

"That's… that's great," he finally said in desperation. "I'm glad you enjoy expanding your knowledge, but you can't really intend to do this. For _us_ to do this."

Cas stopped and stared at him, innocent and baffled. "I have just said so."

"Yeah, but we have been. You know, and it wasn't… I mean, we didn't… Not with each _other_." Dean waved the air between him and Cas. His stomach was twisting, because he knew exactly where Cas' curiosity could lead them. Jesus fuck, the guy had looked at _gay porn_.

"We've come damn close," Lisa's voice was softly amused.

Dean turned to her. "You're okay with this?" he demanded.

"Well, yeah," she answered as if he was a dumb-ass for even asking. "You two are _hot!_"

Dean gave it one more try, "But you're a _mom!_"

"So?" Lisa's laugh was sharper. "Giving birth didn't kill my libido." She looked at him with sharp eyes. "You'd be okay if it was two girls and you, right?"

Dean snorted. "Well, yeah," he said in the same tone she'd used.

"So it's not polyamory that's the stumbling block. It's the two guys," she said. "Is that what you're worried about? That if another guy gives you an orgasm, it'll make you gay?" The mocking tone was back.

"No, I am not worried about that," he scoffed. He'd learned that early on in Hell.

"Then what?" Lisa asked. "Who do you think is going to get hurt by this?"

Castiel leaned closer to Lisa. "It probably reminds Dean of his experience in Hell," he said compassionately.

_That_ shut Lisa up. Finally.

Not that Dean was capable of talking, either.

Cas, however, rarely ran out of words. "At some future point, I would be interested in… bottoming, is the correct phrase I believe. My research suggests that homosexual intercourse can be quite pleasurable–"

It could be, Dean agreed silently, whether you wanted to enjoy it or not.

"–However, there were a great many warnings and precautions regarding anal sex, which leads me to conclude that it's not as simple as it appeared in the videos."

"You were watching porn," Dean said, voice faint. "Porn's… fantasy. It's not real."

The memory swamped him: him and Sam in the front of the Impala, Anna and Ruby in the back.

_"It's like the setup to a bad joke. Or a Penthouse Forum letter."_

_"Dude, reality…porn," _Sam had said, spreading his hands out to indicate the distance.

_"You call this reality?" _he'd asked sarcastically, but it _had_ been their reality.

Just as this was now his…

Regular job, regular paycheck, real taxes, real credit cards, house, family, bills. Plus, he was practically in a goddamn three-way relationship with a mostly-Fallen Angel and Gumby Girl.

It didn't get any easier to understand.

"Dean?" Lisa put her hand on his arm and dragged him out of the memory.

His heart was thumping. His skin was clammy. Everything was distant.

"Dean." Cas' voice ordered him to respond.

Dean looked at him—his best friend was a horny former angel.

Dean looked at Lisa—she was another kind of angel, but apparently just as horny as the real one.

"This isn't my life," he said blankly. He shook his head, unable to _believe_ it. "I just…"

"What? Having angels randomly dropping in for tea doesn't meet your quota for strange?" Lisa asked with a small laugh. "Not to mention Castiel using adult movies for sex ed."

Dean shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I'm not ready to make this 'our thing'. Not yet. Maybe never." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "So I'm gonna go take a shower." He'd just had a shower. "Or, you know, watch the movie with Ben. Give you two time for… you know." He was already backing up. "I'll knock."

Then he turned around and left, closing the door behind him. He ignored the surprise on Ben's face, the same way he'd ignored the expressions on Cas and Lisa's.

It wouldn't work and there was no point in trying. Whatever good thing, Cas and Lisa had a chance to obtain, would just be messed up with him around, because Sam would get out of the Pit. Either he'd get his brother out, or Cas' angel buddies would, but Sam _would_ get out, and he'd need Dean, and Dean would go with Sam. So Dean couldn't let this develop into a _thing_.

Even if it already kind of was…

He watched Indy fight the Nazis and wished life were that simple again.

Beside him Ben fidgeted, squirming and shifting his hand from his knees to crossed over his chest and back. He wasn't sure how long the kid had been doing it, but once he noticed, Dean couldn't ignore it.

He looked down at Ben. "What's the matter, dude?" On screen, Indy and the chick were scrambling through Vienna's sewers. "You don't like rats?" he asked. Not that Dean would mock Ben for that. Rats were freaking disgusting.

Ben shrugged and shifted, and shifted some more.

Before Dean could lose it on the kid, Ben cleared his throat. "You know," he began. The boy's normally pale skin was filled with color. He was looking at his hands, twisting his fingers together.

"Know what?" Dean prodded.

Dark eyes, so like his mother's, flicked over to him then away. Ben cleared his throat again. "I, uh, know that you guys are doing more than, you know, just sleeping with Mom." Ben's voice ended in a whisper. He risked another peek at both Dean. "I mean, you aren't exactly _quiet_."

"Jesus, kid!" Dean muttered, rubbing his face as if the action would force the blood from the surface.

"And that's okay!" Ben rushed to add. "I mean, she likes you—likes you both—a lot, and you like her—and each other, I guess—so that makes it okay, right?

"Are you..." Dean started. He opened and closed his mouth. He shifted awkwardly himself.

"You make her happy," Ben mumbled.

Dean jerked, shifted some more, then brought his hand up to rub the back of his neck in embarrassment.

Ben was determinedly staring at the TV screen. Dean was all for that.

"I make her happy," Dean muttered.

"Yeah, sure," Ben replied. "You talk to her, listen to her and ask her stuff. A lot of guys don't because, I mean, she was pretty young when she had me, and I guess they think that makes her stupid or something."

"Your mom's not stupid."

Ben lifted one shoulder, but didn't say anything else, just sat, twitching a little.

The kid approved of them being in Lisa's life, sharing her with them. A ten-year-old had just approved of his parent living in fucking _three-way_. Because it made his mom happy, and Ben wanted his mom to be happy more than he didn't want to be embarrassed at school.

'He's a good kid,' Dean thought first, followed by 'Lisa was doing a good job with him.'

Another thought kept him quiet and still until the end of the movie: 'Mom would've liked her.'

Ben fell asleep before the movie was over, but Dean let it play out.

He even watched the bonus features, but finally it was done. Dean turned off the TV, and listened. There was no sound from their shared bedroom. He pulled out the comforter that Lisa kept in the chest, the one he and Cas had shared when they first arrived, and smoothed it over the kid. He'd let Ben sleep down here while he resisted the impulse to go upstairs and sleep in Ben's bed.

Ben wasn't his, Lisa had said, but blood-testing for paternity wasn't fool-proof. If Ben had the same blood type as Lisa, then anybody could be the father. DNA testing was the only way to know for sure, but Dean had never suggested they get it done. It would be easier to leave if he didn't know for sure.

Not for the first time, Dean wondered if 'for sure' even mattered, anymore. They didn't need to share DNA for Dean to feel proud of Ben.

He cheered Ben's improved throwing during the games they went to, because _he'd_ done that. He'd taken Ben out to the park to give him pointers. He'd corrected Ben's stance the same way Dad had corrected his, and the same as he'd corrected Sam's. Whether throwing a ball or a knife, the basics were the same.

And it didn't matter that the kid's team lost, and lost, and lost again. What mattered was that now, when Ben threw the ball to first base, it went to fucking _first_.

He'd hugged Dean.

After the first game where his throwing had made a difference, Ben had run up to him and hugged him. Hugged him even before hugging his mother. He'd also said "thank you".

Ben would understand. Dean would explain it to him, and Ben would understand why he couldn't stay.

And he'd have Cas.

Cas was awesome with Ben. The angel couldn't throw for shit, but he made history interesting. Either he'd been there, or he knew the angels who had.

Ben would understand that Dean wasn't what they thought he was.

He walked to the bedroom he was to share with Lisa and Cas. The light was off, but Cas was awake and waiting for him. He wasn't surprised. It had been hard to ignore the quiet coming from the bedroom.

"Do you feel better now?" the former angel asked quietly.

"Not really," he answered just as quietly.

"It was you who taught me that we have to make the most of every good moment we find in life," Cas said. "There are too many horrible one, or boring ones—too many times when the present moment could be our last."

Dean had done that? Mind you, the last year _had _been shitty.

"Lisa offers of herself freely, as do I," Cas continued. "There are no strings to the offer; no binding contracts such as a crossroads demon would create. There are no promises either, of course."

"I know that," Dean said.

"Do you," Cas asked. "Do you really." Then he rolled onto his side, tucking himself close to Lisa and shutting Dean out.

Dean quickly stripped down to his boxers and got into his side of the bed, but he didn't go to sleep. He had everything most people wanted, and he didn't know how to be happy with it.


	11. Bad Day at Black Rock

The sun was up when Ben jumped into their bed the next morning.

"Mom! Mom!" he yelled, shaking the shoulder nearest him and managing to shake everybody, "The toilet's leaking all over the place!"

"Wha's that, baby?" Lisa muttered from her inside position.

"Is it coming out over the bowl?" Dean was already crawling out from under the covers.

"Out of the bottom."

"Seal's probably blown," Dean said. He dug through the pile of clothes he had left on the floor and pulled out his jeans. "Ben, grab all your mom's old towels, the ones she keeps for mud and car washing; pack them around the base of the toilet," he instructed.

"The toilet's leaking?" Lisa was up on her elbows, blanket neatly tucked over her naked breasts.

"Yeah," Dean said, taking a moment to pull on his T-shirt. "I'm gonna take a look at it. I'll let you know," he assured her then escaped to the bathroom.

It was as bad as Ben had said. The water had run from the side all the way to the bathtub where it had formed a decent sized puddle. The cistern was noisy, trying to fill up the bowl and the tank.

"Did you use it already?" he asked.

"Yeah." Ben answered, putting the towels down like Dean had asked. "It's not like I'm really awake in the morning," he said defensively.

Dean could appreciate the sentiment, if not the reality. Still, Ben was only ten. How much pee could one little guy hold?

"First thing we do is turn off the water." He looked at the pipe. It was old and plain—no knobs or switches. "Shi-oot," he corrected. "No shut-off valve."

"What does that mean?" Ben asked, looking at him with big eyes.

"It means we gotta find the main," Dean explained. "That means no water in the whole house."

"Uhh… like no showers?"

"Worse," Dean warned the kid in his most serious 'deadly danger' tone. "No coffee."

Ben broke out in giggles. It sounded good.

Dean ordered Cas and Lisa to fill up every container they had (including the coffee maker) before he turned off the water.

The basement was only minimally finished—wall studs in place but no plaster boards or ceilings—so it was easy to trace the line. Ben was with him, helping to mark the different pipes and vents and hoses that snaked around the space. He'd hoped, without actually hoping, that there would be a valve someplace in the line to the toilet. There wasn't.

"Did you learn all this stuff on the job?" Ben asked. For a moment, Dean thought he meant his job as a hunter then he realized Ben meant his job in construction.

"Nah," he answered. "We just lived in some crap places when I was growing up. Half the time, if Dad couldn't fix it, we didn't have it. Usually for however long we stayed there."

"Really?" Ben asked, and if Dean had thought the kid's eyes had been big before it was nothing compared to their size now. "You lived without water?"

"For a week once," Dean confirmed. "Our neighbor, Mrs. Jackson, she used to let us use her bathroom in return for us taking out the garbage and stuff. When Dad got back, he took a look. He went out and bought a new flush assembly, and had the toilet working in about thirty minutes. We had water back in the trailer in thirty-five."

The landlord had had a black eye in forty.

"That's _cool_!" Ben said with a bounce.

Dean frowned: how was plumbing cool? "Your uncle knows this stuff. There isn't any job on a construction site that he can't put his hand to."

"That's 'cuz _his_ dad made him learn it when _he_ was growing up," Ben said, repeating the oft-repeated family lore.

Dean nodded. "That's right." It was one of the reasons why working with the dude was tolerable. Dean could respect a man who knew his trade.

"You think we should call him?" Ben asked.

Dean looked down at Ben, his maybe-son. One day, maybe, he and Cas would be gone. If that happened then it would be good for the squirt to have a 'positive male role model', and Paul, though stupidly religious, was a good guy. "Do you think we should call him?"

"Mom says it's not a sign of weakness to ask an expert for help."

"Your mom's pretty smart," Dean agreed blandly. "Think he'll be out of church?"

"Maybe?" Ben's voice was unsure as he knew as little as Dean did about when masses or sermons or whatever was in session. "It'll go to voice mail if he is."

True enough.

"Okay. Let's phone," Dean agreed. "_After_ we shut off the water."

.o0o.

Lisa didn't need this, not this morning. It was supposed to be just them, figuring out where they were going after last night. Step forward or run back? She knew what she wanted, what Ben wanted, and Castiel had been pretty clear. It was just Dean who she couldn't pin down. He seemed to be running towards them sideways.

Lisa thought of cursing Dean who'd managed to escape and had left her behind to deal with her family. It would've been okay if only Paul had come over, even Paul and Julie would have been okay. However, her mother had come along.

After fifteen minutes of Annette's passive-aggressive complaints, Dean had shot her a Look—an "I really want to kill somebody" look—and had taken off to the hardware store.

"Yes, Mom, Ben _is_ eating healthy. However, since this is the weekend _and_ we have no water, he gets to eat cereal."

"You should put a banana or some strawberries on it." Annette Braeden said with a sniff.

She wanted to smash the pot she was holding against the counter—repeatedly. And with great force.

"Getting him to eat bananas is not a problem, Mom. He _likes_ bananas."

"I just want him to know how to make healthy choices." Her mother tried to sound hurt, but instead she sounded petty and manipulative.

"And you think I'm going to encourage him to run with scissors, is that it?" she snapped. Ben looked up at her with wide eyes before going back to his cereal, trying to eat it twice as fast.

"Lisa!" Julie protested. She was sitting in that end-of pregnancy sprawl that was the only way to deal with having a basketball-sized belly. "She's just concerned."

"No, she's judgmental." Lisa regretted it as soon as she'd said it.

"Oh, not this again!" Her sister added eye-rolling to tummy rubbing.

Ben popped up from his chair, dirty dishes held out. "Can I go now, Mom?" Lisa could read the _pleasepleaseplease, let me out of here_ in his eyes. She nodded permission and took his dirty dishes.

"You're right. Just forget it." Lisa got up to deal with Ben's dirty dishes. Maybe her mother would let it drop.

"You disapprove of our faith," her mother said. "It has too many rules and restrictions for someone of your nature."

Lisa rubbed her aching temple. It has been a faint hope.

"You have always felt disdain for the Church," her mother explained. "The faith you were raised in, I might add. You have no idea how much that hurts–"

Lisa couldn't help it; she laughed. "Of course I do, Mom. You do it to me all the time. I have been a Buddhist since I was eleven—a wonky one, but still."

"Buddhism isn't a religion," her mother said dismissively.

Lisa slammed the dishwasher door shut. "Buddhism _is_ a belief system, Mom. It's _my_ belief system, but you have always—always, _always_—treated it with contempt. The same way you treat me and my choices." Annette opened her mouth to speak but Lisa lifted her hand. "I know I made some poor choices, but they were _mine_, and I've never tried to pawn off the consequences as the will of God!"

"You're talking about your father," Annette said, tight-lipped and ashen-faced.

"No, Mom. I'm talking about _me_. Though, yeah, okay. I see some similarities." Lisa gave a sad laugh. "Did you even _like_ Dad? Because it sure as hell didn't seem like it half the time."

"Lisa!" her sister protested, eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

"Julie, you know it's true. You've said as much." At that, Julie's expression changed from shock to betrayal. Obviously her sister hadn't said the same things to their mother.

"I married him," her mother stated flatly.

"And you stayed married to him as your faith required, but that doesn't mean you _liked_ him." Lisa took a deep breath—why stop now? "It's the same as you treat me. I mean, you love me and you tried to do right by me, because we're family, but you never understood me. Never tried, really. So it makes me wonder if you ever liked me."

"Lisa, you know she does." But it was Julie saying it, not their mother.

Annette Braeden was finally staying silent. Only the heavy movement of her chest gave any hint to what she was feeling.

"It's okay, Jules," Lisa said because her sister seemed really upset. "I came to terms with it a long time ago." At least mostly, or most of the time. It was because of Ben, of course. Most of her parent-child enlightenment came because of Ben. "It's just one of those things that happens."

"When you were a child, all you would do was ask 'why'," her mother said, tone flat. "Or 'why not'. And you would never accept my answers."

"Your answers too often were 'because'," Lisa explained. "Because you said so, or society did. Or God."

"Those are perfectly reasonable explanations. Your sister accepted them, but you…" She flipped her fingers in Lisa's direction. "And your father encouraged it. Thought you'd make a _fine_ police officer."

"But how would he know, since he wasn't one. Right, Mom?" The words were out of Lisa's mouth before she could filter them.

Her mother's mouth tightened to white. "Your father was a decent man, but his friends! 'The righteous should choose his friends carefully, for the way of the wicked leads them astray.' Proverbs 12:26." Annette was breathing heavier now. Angry colour dotted her cheeks.

Lisa had heard all her mother's stories about Tom Braeden's corrupt, adulterous friends who'd essentially led Dad onto a path of failure and sin. She'd heard her mother blame Dad's suicide on those friends instead of her father's massive PTSD and history of depression. She didn't want to hear it again.

Before she could cut her mother's rant short, there was a pressure...

Like the moment just before your ears pop in an airplane, and then Rachel, the blonde angel was standing in the kitchen.

Julie shrieked. Her mother jumped. Then she ordered Lisa to tell her who the stranger was.

Lisa ignored them both.

"Rachel," Lisa said as calmly as she could manage.

"Lisabraeden," the angel responded. "I cannot sense Castiel. Is he here?"

There was a coiled urgency in Rachel's usually placid voice that felt like sandpaper on Lisa's skin. "What's the matter?" she asked before a hollow boom shook the windows and a plain-suited stranger was standing in her kitchen glowering at her.

He was blond, like Rachel, but built more like Dolph Lungren and less like Gwyneth Paltrow.

"Where is the traitor?" he growled.

"Castiel is no traitor, Lauviah." Rachel moved smoothly between Lisa and the Dolph-clone.

Julie's shrieks of "Ohmagawd!Ohmagawd!"were continuous. Her mother shouted over the noise to demand that Lisa tell her what was going on.

Like Lisa knew.

Still, it wasn't going to be anything good, so she slipped away from the angel showdown to her mother and her sister. "We need to get out of here." She tried to push her mother into the living room. From there they could escape out the front door.

"Michael is the one we should obey," Dolph-clone said. "He is our Father's Chosen One."

"Yet Castiel was Resurrected," Rachel answered. "Does that not suggest to you, that he is Favored as well?"

Lisa tried to pull her mother away, but like always, she wasn't going to listen to her oldest daughter. "Mom, this is no time to be stubborn."

"This is _your_ home," Annette Braeden hissed. "Tell _them_ to leave."

She wanted to thunk her head against the wall. "Julie, for Heaven's sake! Stop shrieking. It's not good for the baby!" Lisa said in desperation. Surprisingly, it worked. A little. Julie still whimpered and moaned, but at least those were quieter sounds.

Lisa renewed her efforts to get her family out, while keeping one eye on the battle brewing in her kitchen.

The new angel shook out his shoulders. "Heaven is already divided because of him. And your plan to restore his Grace will make him an Abomination."

"We are not planning to restore his Grace."

"Liar," the Dolph-clone snarled. "He must be destroyed before his very existence taints us all."

"I will stop you," Rachel stated.

He pulled out a long, triangular blade. Rachel drew hers in answer. The two angels circled around each other, cautious and slow.

The sight of the weapons set Julie off again, and her shrieks reached glass-shattering levels. Lisa rolled her eyes because they really didn't have time for this. At least the display of weapons got her mother moving.

"Mary Julianne, you stop that right now!" Lisa's mother barked and shut her youngest up like throwing a switch.

Lisa took advantage of the pause. "You need to leave. Now."

Her mother nodded silently, mouth in a thin, angry line. Between them, they got Julie out of the dining room and into the living room just as Rachel went flying into Lisa's fridge. The door bent, and Lisa could hear jars and containers inside it falling and breaking.

"I am here, Lauviah," Castiel said from the back doorway. He must have gone out through the front door and then around to the back. Hopefully, it meant Paul was safe.

"Abomination!" Lauviah attacked Castiel with a roar. There were more crashes and grunts from the kitchen, interspersed with the bright, high tang of metal hitting metal.

"Out the front door, Mom," Lisa ordered. Another silent unhappy nod, but Annette helped Julie waddle to the door. Ben gave her a large-eyed look. "Ben, go with them. You all run, and you don't look back."

Lisa dove at the bookcase with the long, thin drawer in the middle that wasn't good for holding anything except long, thin angel blades. Somehow, Castiel and Dean had collected a good half-dozen of the things and they were scattered around the house, just in case.

This was that case…

She grabbed the weapon, which should have felt way heavier than it did, and crept to the archway separating dining room from living room. A quick peek revealed the Dolph-clone's arms blurring as he weaved his blade back and forth, first blocking then attacking Castiel then Rachel.

Lisa tried not to notice what the fight had done to her kitchen, but basically the fridge was going to be a write-off, and her microwave, too. Most of the cabinets…

"Michael was given Command by God himself." Dolph-clone's voice boomed self-righteously. "I will kill the Traitor, and when Michael returns from his Mission, I will sit at his Right Hand. For I will have been the most Loyal of all the Garrison."

"He will send you to die in a war that needn't happen, Lauviah," Castiel answered. His breathing was a little rough, but he was still steady.

Lisa barely listened to the angels' smack talk. Instead, she emptied herself—no thoughts, no emotions—nothing intense enough to call attention to her. She was null, null, null… until the Dolph-clone was forced to take a step back within range.

Lisa flipped the blade so that it was pointing up. She stepped forward, and drove it up low on his side as hard as she could.

It slid through the angel's flesh like it was air.

She didn't let herself think that this was a human body she was damaging; that the angel's vessel had been someone's son-brother-lover. It was easier to forget that the body was human when light started bleeding out of the entry wound, and out of the ears.

There was a sound, more like a vibration, just above where she could hear it. It made her brain hurt worse than fingernails on an old-fashioned blackboard.

Lisa closed her eyes and twisted the blade like her dad had explained all those years ago.

Everything tightened, tightened, tightened… Until the angel blew out of his host body, and she went flying back through the doorway.

The world undulated. Walls warping and bubbling like something out of _The Matrix._ Sound, too, was distorted.

Somebody was playing with her controls…

"Lisa." She heard a voice say. It was a familiar voice, the voice of someone she cared for.

Holy crow, she hurt!

"Lisa Sophia." It was a different voice, female. She ignored it, too.

She was a huge bag of sensations, pins and needles all over, everywhere, and the floor undulated setting them off in rolling waves. It was too fucking much.

"MOM!"

That voice she couldn't ignore.

"Ben?" she hoped she said his name; she couldn't actually tell.

"Mo-m?" The floor beside her gave a little bump and wobble.

She opened her eyes. Ben was kneeling beside her. His eyes were big and suspiciously red. His face shifted and twisted. It was horrible to watch so she closed her eyes again. She tried to say his name, tried to reach out to him. Her whole right side seized like it was in a steel press. All the muscles, from her finger to her jaw to her hip, one big radiating ball of pain.

"What's happening," Dean asked. "When I killed Zachariah, I didn't have this happen."

He hadn't?

"You are a vessel," Castiel explained. "It gives you certain level of immunity."

She wanted to be Dean.

"She will be well," said a female voice. "Her body just needs to absorb the Grace that was emitted."

Around her the room bobbled and stretched, and _she_ bobbled with it. Kinda cool, but she still wanted to be Dean because this wasn't like being on an amusement park ride: it was like being the air displaced by the ride's cars.

"That's it, Lisa," her brother-in-law said in the distance. "Pant."

Someone was holding her hand. Someone was stroking her hair. Someone was yelling. It was all far away, kept out by the pain. It was an amazingly Zen feeling.

But it still really fucking hurt.

Eventually, whatever was crushing her got bored and went away. She felt her head being lifted. She braced for a return of the pain, but all she felt was something being slid into place under her, and then her head being gently lowered.

"I got you a pillow, Mom."

She tried out a smile. No pain.

She reached out to her son.

Pain.

"Don't try to move. It will only cause your muscles to seize," she heard Castiel say. "We can shift you a little, but you will need to remain in place for anywhere from one to several hours."

Lisa didn't want to be lying on the living room floor. It was a nice floor, mostly clean, but it was hardly practical.

"Can we shift her to someplace more comfortable?"

That was Dean asking. His voice had been the soothing one. His fingers combed through her hair.

Lisa wistfully wondered if he wasn't Ben's dad after all. She knew there were three possibles. Three men with whom she'd been unlucky (condom breakage), stupid (tequila shots), or swept away (Dean). The blood test had only eliminated one for sure, and since she'd never expected to see Dean or the other one ever again, it hadn't mattered.

"How will we know when the worst has worn off?" Ben held her hand. He squeezed it as he asked his question. It was small, but there was the beginning of strength. He was a fine boy. She was proud of him. Did she ever tell him that, or did she refrain because it would embarrass him? Silly not to say it.

"It will start with her being capable of making small movements—speaking perhaps," Rachel said. "And her pupils will return to a more normal dilation."

Would Dean like DNA tests, or would that be too much like a commitment?

"You mean they'll stop fluttering like that?" Dean asked, and Lisa realized that was what was causing the world to be fuzzy—her eyes weren't working properly. That meant she still had 20/20 vision. That was good. She liked being able to see.

"They should stabilize, yes."

She didn't like it when the world wobbled so she kept her eyes shut. The floor had stopped moving, but it still felt like she had no body, or that pieces of it were floating just over _there_.

Lisa felt the blanket cover her, and the soft kiss on her forehead. Dean's lips. Dean's concern. There was no doubt that he cared.

There was also no doubt that it took stuff like this—life threatening upheavals—to make him admit it. Even then it would be temporary. In a couple hours she would be better. A couple hours after that, Dean would be freaking out at how much he cared and he'd want to run. Dean hated to be vulnerable emotionally and that's what caring _did_.

She'd known that about him ten years ago. And she'd known that a month ago when he'd shown up on her doorstep with a shaky ex-angel in tow.

She could hear her mother complaining about what had happened, what a fright she'd received and how badly it could have affected Julie. Paul was handling her. Paul was excellent with her mother, but even he was having a hard time soothing Annette Braeden. At least it was happening in a different room and not right over her head.

Odd, Lisa thought. She could accept Dean's panicked rejection of her person and her home, but she couldn't do the same thing with her mom. When would her mom accept that Lisa was never going to be a showcase daughter?

Of course, her mother was close-minded and judgmental, and Dean was just frightened. Totally different thing.

However, when Lisa flipped the question, it became would _she_ ever accept that Annette Braeden was never going to be the mother _she_ wanted?

That was an uncomfortable question. One best left to drift like her connection to her body, wavy and distant and dim.

Life went on around her. She was pretty sure that Ben sat beside her the whole time, although she was also sure that someone had given him his PSP so he could hardly be considered one hundred percent attentive.

At one point she was sure her mother and sister came through and said good bye. Neither of them bent down to her level and that was okay. She thought they might have said something about contractions, but it could've been contractors, and it didn't matter anyway.

Dean lifted her head once and trickled water down her throat. That went so well she tried to lift her finger again. Not a good idea. Dean waited out that seizure, stroking her hair and softly murmuring to her. Then she thought he got called away. Or maybe he just left. Whatever. He gave her another gentle kiss.

Lisa went back into her dim, distant, fluttery world.

Is this what a coma patient felt? All muffled and grey?

Someone was petting her. Someone with strong hands, calloused at the tips, and smelling of engine oil and wood dust. Dean.

She liked Dean's hands.

She'd especially liked Dean's hands on her, running over her skin. She could remember the strength of his hands on her skin. They'd felt nice. She could almost feel them on her right now. And Castiel…

Castiel was always fun. So responsive and open. His skin was pale and soft, like a baby's, but with hard muscles just under the surface. Nice surfaces.

She wanted to touch it again. She wanted to touch them both…

It was a nice dream.

"Listen to this song," her son said. "It's got my name in it." He proceeded to play some squeaky pop music.

"How can you listen to that crap?" Dean demanded and Lisa rose up out of the dream.

"You're just jealous that I have a song with my name in it."

"That's not a song," she heard Dean say. "But at least it's telling the truth: no sex for you until you're thirty. I might just be able to handle it by then." Lisa's heart gave a bump at the thought that Dean would still be around when Ben was thirty. The floor rippled.

"You said thirt_een_, right?" her son teased back. "I can do that, but I gotta warn ya: I might have trouble keeping the ladies away 'til then."

"Dream on, munchkin." Dean's voice was farther away. Ben's disgusted raspberry was right above her. She could feel the spit drops landing on her face. She frowned in disgust and her nose twitched with the desire to wipe it off.

"Whoa, Mom. You moved," Ben commented in awe. "Dean! Cas! She moved."

All her men came back.

"Move your finger." They watched as she carefully flicked her pointer finger. Ache, but no pain.

"Bed or couch?" Dean asked and they waited for her reply.

She was already removed enough from the world; she didn't need to be in the bedroom. "Couch." Her voice was raspier than Castiel's but they understood.

They moved her to the couch, and the world went on without her.

.o0o.

Castiel was no longer an angel. He had no Grace, no way to tap into the Powers of Heaven, no way to view the core of a being. He was still sure they were lying to him.

"Why did Lauviah call me an Abomination?" he repeated the question.

"Because you are an angel without Grace, yet you are not Fallen, nor are you Mortal. You are Unclassifiable, and therefore, Inexplicable, and Lauviah has always demanded that all Beings maintain their proper Roles in the Ordering of the Universe."

It was distressing how comfortable Mehiel looked with their careful shading of the truth. It reminded Castiel of Zachariah and of Uriel before him. So sure they were right that all their actions could be justified.

"Try again."

The two angels exchanged glances. Rachel straightened. It was her turn.

"There is a faction of our Brethren who either believe that Michael's plan was correct or they wish to follow him merely because he _is_ Michael. Regardless of why, they all wish to return to our Brother's plan to bring about the Apocalypse."

"You informed me of this previously," Castiel reminded her.

"We suspect that Lauviah was one of the latter."

"That doesn't explain why he called me 'Abomination'." Castiel was losing patience. How odd. He used to be able to wait hours—_days_—for a conversation to reveal its purpose.

"There are rumors circulating within the Garrison that we are working not only to stop Michael from completing the Apocalypse, but also to… That we intend to–" Rachel faltered and looked to Mehiel.

"They are under the impression that we intend to bring souls out from Hell, Damned Souls that we could use to fight the archangels." Mehiel sounded embarrassed, but he had also, just a short time ago, sounded forthright.

"Souls to fight Michael and Raphael," Castiel repeated doubtfully. "Is such a thing possible?"

"Oh yes, definitely," Mehiel nodded. "Or, rather, the theory has been discussed for millennia. It's never been tested in the field, of course, as there was never a force strong enough to oppose the Garrison when they fought united."

"The Garrison is not united."

"As you say," Mehiel said. "If the calculations are correct, using souls—Blessed or Damned—would give the average angel power nearly equal to that of Raphael. Enough of us so powered would be able to overwhelm both he and Michael. ."

"However, souls from Hell would be tainted," Rachel explained needlessly. "To use such to enhance our powers…" She trailed off, leaving the consequences to their imaginations.

By now, Castiel had a good imagination, and he could certainly agree that such a thing would indeed be an abomination.

However, it still did not answer his primary question.

"That does not explain Lauviah," Castiel pointed out. "I am not an angel. Therefore I have no use for souls of any kind, as I have no power to enhance. So why did he call me, specifically, 'Abomination'?"

"Lauviah –" Rachel started.

"And some of his more fanciful companions," interjected Mehiel.

"They believe that we are searching for a way to use those souls to restore your Grace to you–"

"Or to replace it." Mehiel interrupted again.

"And that by doing so, we plan to put you in Michael's place."

The longer they spoke, the higher Castiel's brows rose. The possible uses of a human soul had been discussed almost as soon as God created them. Re-Gracing a fallen angel was not, and never had been, one of those uses.

It could be a true explanation…

"_Is_ this something you are exploring?" Castiel asked. "Is Harachel searching for a way for me to be 're-Graced'?"

Rachel stretched out a hand. "Castiel–"

"If so, then I must agree with Lauviah. It would be an Abomination. _I_ would be an Abomination," he said flatly. "It would be a gift I could not accept."

"Castiel," Mehiel said firmly. "We are not, and never have, planned on using random souls from Hell to give you back your Grace."

Very carefully worded. Castiel recognized the style.

"Are you, or any who follow you, planning on using the souls to boost your own powers, or the powers of your allies, to fight against Michael or Raphael when they return from Hell?"

Again, the two angels looked at each other, just a quick sideways glance, before Rachel spoke. She assured him that they had no intention of doing such a thing and then they disappeared.

Castiel stood in the backyard, looking at the carefully planted border without seeing it. He had phrased his questions incorrectly. The angels were lying to him.


End file.
